


Power and Control

by ASpotofBother



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, F/M, Gen, Intrigue, Some angst, Vampire Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 50,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASpotofBother/pseuds/ASpotofBother
Summary: A Ventrue knows how to recognize and utilize a valuable asset.  A look into what might have happened if LaCroix had been a little more willing to  put aside his vendetta and take advantage of the fledgling's knack for continuing to survive everything her first nights threw at her.  Eventual canon divergence.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> First upload here, so please educate me if I've used any of the tags incorrectly. This fic will loosely follow the plot of the game until it doesn't. Concrit is always appreciated. :)

Sebastian LaCroix paused in the shadows of the stage left wing, letting his gaze sweep over what he could see of the theater as he straightened his cuff links. The seats were mostly unoccupied, handfuls of allied kindred clumped together amidst a sea of red velour. It would have been a poor turn-out for an Anarch rally – for a court called by a Camarilla prince, it was an insult.

Yet another slight against his rule. Damn them. He lifted his chin. He wouldn’t give any of those in the audience the satisfaction of acknowledging this blatant disrespect, but he would take careful note of those who had chosen not to answer his summons. At least he could take comfort in knowing tonight’s proceedings would finally rid him of a troublesome thorn in his side.

His footsteps echoed hollowly as he stepped out onto the stage, his sheriff a towering shadow over his right shoulder. The prisoners were already kneeling, slumped over the wooden boards, still staked and in torpor – Liam Tate and his ill-begotten childe. Sebastian passed neatly around them as he strode to the stage’s edge. “Good evening,” he said, voice pitched to carry in the theater’s open space. “My fellow kindred, my apologies for disrupting any business or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening. It’s unfortunate that the affair that gathers us together tonight is a troubling one.”

Twin fleshy squelches sounded from behind him as the prisoners’ stakes were removed. He heard the fledgling take a great, gasping breath, but there was no sound from her sire.

“We are here because the laws that bind our society – the laws that are the fabric of our existence – have been broken.”

The crowd was restless, bored, and doing little to conceal it. He could hear the Anarchs whispering amongst themselves, watched as a scantily-clad Toreador blatantly ignored his speech in favor of flirting (fruitlessly) with the Tremere regent. He took a deep breath, pressing his lips together in a hard line before pushing on.

“As Prince, I am within my rights to grant or deny the kindred of this city the privilege of siring. Many of you have come to me seeking permission, and I have endorsed some of these requests.”

Isaac Abrams, Anarch baron of Hollywood, blatantly checked his watch. LaCroix had the overwhelming urge to plunge into the kindred’s mind and force him to swallow the offending piece of jewelry. He squared his shoulders, clasping his hands behind his back.

“However, the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission. Indeed, my permission was never sought at all.”

_That_ was finally enough to command their attention. Violations of the Traditions – especially those that threatened the Masquerade – were not matters to be taken lightly.

“He was caught shortly after the Embrace of this childe,” LaCroix continued, gesturing toward the kneeling fledgling. For a moment, his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear; she struggled briefly against the grip of the guard holding her, but the man twisted her arms behind her and she desisted. She tried to hold his gaze, but he only turned away to face his audience once again. “It pains me to announce the sentence, as up to tonight I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization. But as some of you may know, the penalty for this transgression is death.”

Liam loosed a short, bitter laugh, but offered no other comment.

“Know that I am no more a judicator than I am a servant to the law that governs us all. Let tonight’s proceedings serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood.”

He turned toward Liam, leaning down so his words wouldn’t carry. “Forgive me.”

The Toreador’s lip curled as he glared up at him. “I’ll save you a place in Hell, LaCroix.”

“I have no doubt.” He stepped back, nodding to his sheriff. “Let the penalty commence.”

He watched the crowd impassively as the kindred’s massive sword separated Liam’s head from his neck, taking mental note of those in the audience whose expressions betrayed any hint of resentment or sympathy as the man’s body burned from the inside out.

He took a step forward as the last of the former traitor’s body crumbled to ash. “Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten progeny,” he said, drawing every eye back to him. “Without a sire, most childer are doomed to walk the earth never knowing their place, their responsibility, and most importantly, the laws they must obey.” He spared another glance back at the unfortunate childe. She was beginning to hyperventilate, her Beast no doubt howling for self-preservation beneath her skin. He afforded her a small, sympathetic smile before he turned his back on her. “Therefore, I have decided that – ”

“This is bullshit!”

Nines Rodriguez leapt to his feet, two of his companions having to restrain the dark-haired de-facto leader of the Anarchs from rushing the stage. Internally, LaCroix seethed. How _dare_ he…? Before he could formulate a suitably scathing request for the man to _sit down_ and stop disrupting the proceedings, the unrest spread. Following Nines’ example, kindred across the theater jumped up, voicing their displeasure. LaCroix’s posture stiffened, but his expression remained implacable as he waited for the outburst to die down.

“If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish,” he said coolly as the worst of the din faded. The shouted complaints died away, but the upturned faces remained skeptical at best, outright hostile at worst. Sebastian suppressed a sigh. It seemed there was no other alternative. “I have decided to let this kindred live. She shall be instructed in the ways of our kind and be granted the same rights.” He locked eyes with Nines. “Let no one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of this community.”

Nines shook off the restraining hands of his comrades, shooting LaCroix a final unfriendly look before he turned and started for the exit. The tension ebbed as the other Anarchs watched him stride away.

“I thank you all for attending these proceedings, and I hope their significance is not lost,” LaCroix called out as his audience began to trickle out of the theater, muttering amongst themselves. “Good evening.”

No one deigned to acknowledge he’d spoken. Miscreants. He set his jaw and gestured for the sheriff to follow as he turned and strode backstage. “Clean up this mess,” he shot over his shoulder at the guard still standing over Liam’s ashes. He glanced toward the fledgling, who was rising shakily to her feet and regarding him with wide, wary eyes. LaCroix ignored her for the moment, sweeping past her and through the door into the narrow hall that led to the theater’s rear entrance. He allowed a sigh to escape him as he turned to his enforcer. “Ensure our perimeter is still secure,” he said. “I must speak with the childe; I will join you shortly.”

The imposing kindred nodded, melting into the shadows as the door behind LaCroix clicked open. He glanced over his shoulder to find the fledgling being deposited none-too-gently at the head of the hallway, the guard nodding deferentially to him before he closed the door behind her. Sebastian turned to face her, studying her silently.

She was young, even by kine standards, with a head of short, vibrantly red hair framing a heart-shaped face dominated by large blue eyes. He supposed she could be considered quite lovely by modern standards – no doubt what had attracted the attention of her sire in the first place. The corner of Sebastian’s lip curled in a bitter smile. Poor Liam –Toreadors could be so predictable.

She shifted uneasily beneath his gaze. “I – ” She cleared her throat, running her tongue experimentally over her newly-acquired fangs before she took a deep breath and started again. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Ah, yes. Your sire – tragic,” LaCroix said, closing the distance between them, not missing the way she tensed as he came to a halt before her. “My apologies, but you see, there is a strict code of conduct that all of us must...adhere to if we wish to survive. We cannot allow anyone to threaten our Masquerade. Violators are dealt with harshly, as you’ve just seen.”

She shivered slightly. “You killed him.”

“Yes. The laws that govern our kind are quite clear, and those who violate our rules of secrecy endanger us all.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, not quite meeting his eyes. “What’s going to happen now?”

Yes – what now? Damn Nines’ interference. “What did your sire tell you of our kind?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’d only just...woken when we were attacked.” A tremor ran through her. “He held me down. I begged him to stop. His blood was bloated with rot – ”

“Enough,” LaCroix said, a tad too sharply. He reined in his irritation when she flinched. “It’s in the past. Nothing can change it now. Fortunately, you’ve been granted the opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your sire.”

“How?” she muttered. “By being your slave?”

He moved almost without thought, gripping her chin and forcing her head up so that her eyes met his. “I’ve shown great clemency by sparing your life, childe,” he said, tone clipped. “I understand you are young, and that your Embrace was quite difficult. But I will not tolerate such insolence.”

Her pupils were blown wide with fear. “I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered, trying to shrink away from him.

He held her in place another second, making sure she was acutely aware how easy it was for him to do so, before he released her. “You are forgiven,” he said as she backed away from him, rubbing gingerly at her face where his fingers had bruised her skin.

“So what am I?” she said.

An unwanted complication, he thought sourly. He tilted his head as he studied her. “You are my responsibility. You must understand – allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behavior. It is my head over which hangs the sword of Damocles, all for a fledgling I didn’t create.”

She stared at him. “Why do it, if it’s such a burden?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not without pity. The world is not often kind to sireless childer – I hoped to spare you that fate.”

“Oh.” Her expression was more one of confusion rather than gratitude. “I – thanks?”

“What I’m offering is not generosity,” he said.

He paused when his phone buzzed, fishing it from his pocket. “Excuse me.” The screen lit up to reveal a message from his sheriff: _Sabbat forces moving in from the west._ Sabbat. Wonderful. As if this night needed another obstacle. He typed out a terse reply – _Handle it_ – before returning the phone to his pocket.

“Is something wrong?”

He glanced sharply at the fledgling, but her expression held nothing but unease. He shook his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.” The wheels began to turn in his head, a plan coalescing as he studied her guileless eyes. “What’s your name, childe?”

“...Madison.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. When had it become an acceptable practice to introduce oneself by one’s given name only? Exactly how far was kine society going to allow itself to fall? God save him from these modern nights. “I am Sebastian LaCroix, Prince of Los Angeles,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it like the officer he’d once been. “You may address me as your sire, or Prince LaCroix.”

“Prince?” Her expression was deeply skeptical as she took her hand back, but he ignored it.

“As I said, sparing your life was not an act of simple generosity. This shall be your trial – you will be brought to Santa Monica, to a safe house the Camarilla have made use of in the past. There, you will meet with an agent named Mercurio, who will provide the details of your labor. I’ll forward you resources to help better understand your nature, as well as any other orders to be carried out in my name. Once these tasks have been completed, you will be permitted to return to me. Do you understand?”

“I...guess?”

“What, exactly, do you find unclear in your instructions?”

She hesitated, searching his expression – for what, he couldn’t say. “What if I can’t do what you want me to?”

LaCroix frowned. “This is your chance to prove that sparing you was more than a wasted gesture.” He leaned forward, into her space, holding her gaze as he slipped into her mind and exerted the slightest amount of his will. “Do not come back...until you do.” He straightened, pushing open the door that led into the alley and holding it for her. “Good evening, fledgling.”

She cast him a last miserably anxious look before she stepped through the door. She hesitated on the top step, whirling to face him again, but the door was already swinging closed. LaCroix let it fall shut in her face, then turned away to call a cab and fire off a message to Mercurio. He doubted she would survive the Sabbat raid, but there mustn’t be any question that he had fully intended to send her to Santa Monica when she was cut down in the coming crossfire.

And if, by some miracle, she did survive the bloodshed...well, it was simply prudent to plan for all contingencies.

He dialed the sheriff as he strode back toward the front entrance of the theater. “I’m returning to my office,” he said without preamble when he heard his enforcer’s even breathing on the other end of the line. “I expect this situation to have been dealt with by the time I arrive there.” He hesitated, glancing around to ensure he was alone on the stage. “Should you come across the fledgling in the coming fight, you are to neither help nor hinder her survival. Is that clear?” The sheriff grunted an affirmation, and LaCroix disconnected the call before sending a quick message to his driver to bring the car around to the front of the theater. That done, he slipped his phone back into his pocket and straightened his tie.

The night was young, and there was still much to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Madison glared miserably at the theater’s closed door. She felt off-kilter, out-of-sorts; she couldn’t stop prodding at her newly-elongated canines, running her tongue against their sharpened points with an almost morbid fascination. The light bolted to the alley wall cast a dirty yellow pall over the narrow passageway, and strangely heightened sensations kept snagging in her mind like brambles: The _tick_ of rats’ claws against asphalt at the far end of the alley, the pungent odor of rotting food from the dumpsters in the same direction, the dust motes whirling lazily through the sickly light.

And there, around the corner, pulling at the darkness within her – the scent of human blood, so overpowering she could taste the tang of iron and copper on her tongue. She whimpered, instinct taking over as the creature beneath her skin turned her away from the theater and toward nourishment.

The man fretting over his broken-down car never heard her coming. She needed no instruction, bone-deep instinct guiding her to launch herself at his unsuspecting back, clamping her legs tightly around his waist as she sank her fangs into his neck. The momentum of her attack toppled them both; the man struck the pavement with a startled grunt, barely able to comprehend what was happening before his eyes rolled back in his head and she began to feed in earnest.

The feel of his blood sliding down her throat was euphoric, setting every dead nerve alight – sustenance and power and panacea all in one, his faltering heart-beat the sweetest music she’d ever heard.

“Whoa, kid – ease up.”

Someone laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. Madison lashed out, turning to snap her jaws at the offending appendage.

“Hey, _easy_.”

The stranger evaded her teeth with ease, catching her face between his hands and kneeling to look her in the eye. “Look at me, kid,” he said, voice coarse as gravel. “I know it’s hard to concentrate with all that blood filling your senses, but you gotta try. You feel that thing inside you that wants to rip my head off so you can go back to draining this poor bastard? That’s your Beast, and it’s bad news. You give in, kill an innocent, it’s gonna cost you a piece of your Humanity, and as one of the damned that’s not something you can afford to lose, you hear me?”

Her lips skinned back from her teeth uncertainly as she stared at him. He was large and rough-looking, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and a long, unkempt beard. He sighed. “Tossing you out half-frenzied into the night – that what he considers ‘instructing you in the ways of our kind?’ Fucking prick,” he muttered. His dark eyes studied her closely. “What’s your name, kid?”

She swallowed. “M-Madison.”

He grinned, fangs the yellow of old bones in the shadows. “Hey, Madison. I’m Jack. You feeling in control yet, kiddo?”

She took a deep breath. The human’s heartbeat was still thundering in her ears, the rush of his blood pulling at her like the moon pulled the tide, but she felt more in control, better able to resist its siren song. “I think so.”

“All right,” Jack said encouragingly. “Good.” He took his hands away from her face, sitting back on his heels. “You wanna let go of that kine for me?”

“Kine?” Madison said, distracted as something within her snarled. This was _her_ prey. She shook her head.

“Kine – it’s our word for human,” Jack said. “Ignore that voice you got bitching in your head. You’ve had enough – there’s no need to kill him. You’ve gotta control your Beast, or it’ll control you. And if you let that happen...well, that’s just a bad horror show. A dumb, desperate animal wearing your skin that’ll do anything to survive. Except you’ll be the one that’ll have to deal with the consequences. So.” He smiled humorlessly. “Wanna let him go?”

Madison glanced down at the unconscious form she was still straddling. He was pale, his breathing shallow, sweat beading on his clammy forehead. She didn’t – she hadn’t fed that deeply, had she? She’d just –

“It’s okay, kid,” Jack said, voice breaking into her churning thoughts. “Just stand up.”

She made herself unclench her hands from the human’s shoulders, stumbling to her feet and turning her back on his prone form. Jack rose to his feet, coming to stand in front of her as she leaned against the brick wall. “Good job, kid,” he said. “First crisis as a kindred averted.”

“Kindred,” she muttered, wiping a hand down her face and grimacing when it came away bloody. “That the super-secret-club word for vampire?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Least you still got your sense of humor,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, tonight’s just been a barrel of laughs,” she said, sighing. She wiped the last of the blood from her chin as she considered him. “So, Jack, what are you doing out here?”

He scratched at his cheek. “Eh, I was inside, watched that whole shit-show they called a trial. Figured they’d just plop you out here like a naked baby in the woods without even filling you in on the basics.”

She unconsciously hunched her shoulders, wrapping her arms around herself. “What exactly happened in there?”

“A dog and pony show dressed up to look legit.” Jack sighed at her blank expression. “All right, kid, I’m gonna make this quick: You got some blood in ya, you’re feeling all kick-ass, like you’re a big, bad vampire – congrats. Now keep that shit to yourself. There’s rules about letting the kine know we exist. Some folks call it the Masquerade, I call it common fucking sense. You keep our secret secret, you make life easier for all of us. You go around beating your chest and howling at the moon, you’re gonna bring the Camarilla down on you. Or worse.”

“The Camarilla?”

He gestured back at the theater. “The assholes who killed your sire. They uphold the Masquerade, make a tidy business out of enforcing ‘vampire laws,’ like who gets to sire and who doesn’t. The poor schmuck who Embraced you didn’t fill out the required paperwork so – oops! Off with his head.”

She stared at him. “So that was them being the good guys?”

“Hmph.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, I’ll tell you what I think some other time, maybe. I like to let people form their own opinions.” He stiffened, head snapping toward the other end of the alley. “You hear that?”

“Hear wha – ”

There was a squeal of brakes and burst of gunfire from the street. Jack grabbed her by the arm and began hauling her toward the nearest door. “Time to go, kiddo.”

Two gunmen burst through the chain-link gate at the far end of the alley as they reached the door; Jack kicked it open so hard it rebounded off the wall, shoving her inside as their assailants opened fire. Madison felt the bullets tear into her side before she hit the concrete floor – teeth clenched against a scream, she scrambled further into the room before throwing a glance behind her.

The doorway stood empty; Jack was gone.

She pushed herself to her feet, weaving between hydraulic car lifts to snag a wrench from the wall-mounted tool rack. She hefted it with one hand, pressing the other gingerly against her side. Her fingers came away slicked with blood, but far less than she was expecting. In fact, the bleeding seemed to have already stopped. “What?”

Sounds of a scuffle drew her attention back to the alley. One of the gunmen stumbled into the doorway, reeling from an unseen onslaught. Madison brandished the wrench, but before either of them could react Jack was on the man, slamming his fist into the side of the assailant’s head before he grabbed him by the chin and base of the skull and _twisted_. She heard the bones crack, watched the man’s eyes roll back in his head as he convulsed. Jack, apparently not satisfied, lifted the man bodily into the air and broke his back over his knee, dropping the body to the floor before crushing its skull underfoot.

“Fucking – fuck!” Madison groaned, stomach churning as the man’s body ignited, burning down to ashes in a matter of seconds.

“Goddamn wastes of unlife,” Jack growled, stepping into the garage and closing the door behind him. Well, he tried – it wouldn’t close properly, hanging crookedly on its frame. He glanced at her, noting the hand pressed to her side. “Didja get winged?” He didn’t wait for an answer, covering the distance between them in three long strides and pulling her hand away with surprisingly gentle fingers. His lip curled in amusement. “Hey hey! Look at them potholes! Ah, don’t worry, those’ll close up soon enough – might be a good idea to feed again soon, though. It’ll speed up the healing process.”

“He shot me,” Madison said, mind still trying to catch up with the events of the last minute.

“Yep,” Jack confirmed cheerfully, taking a step back so he was no longer crowding her.

“How am I not – ?”

“Dead?” Jack supplied with a sardonic grin. He ushered her toward the stairwell. “Fringe benefits of joining the club, kid. All kindred have a few traits in common that set ‘em a peg above humans on the food chain. Lucky for you, a body that can take a beating’s one of ‘em. Hell, you play your cards right, you got a real shot at immortality.”

“Immortality? Really?” She tried but couldn’t quite keep the skepticism from her tone.

“Mm-hmm. ‘Course, it’s no guarantee,” he amended as he preceded her up the stairs. “You can still be destroyed, but forget that shit you might’ve gotten from the books and movies. Garlic’s worthless, and a cross is only dangerous if it’s backed by True Faith – and lemme tell ya, there’s precious few kine around with that these days. A stake can’t kill you, but it’ll paralyze you if it catches you in the heart. Running water’s no problem. I bathe...occasionally.” He chuckled. “Now, a shotgun blast to the head? That’s trouble. Fire? That’s _real_ trouble. And you happen to catch a sunrise? That’s it – it’s all over. You getting all this, kiddo?”

“I think so,” she said, rubbing at her forehead as she followed him down a dingy hallway.

“Good – might save your life some night. Now – ” Gunfire erupted from the alley below. “God_dammit_,” Jack growled, ducking against the wall opposite the windows. “Stay away from the windows.”

Madison crouched next to him, flinching as one of the windows in question shattered in a hail of bullets. “What’s going on out there?”

He scowled. “It’s a Sabbat raid.”

“And that is?”

“The Sabbat? They’re, uh… Eh, Christ, I was hoping to spare you this shit ‘til later,” Jack muttered, carding a hand through his hair. “The Sabbat are mostly mindless, bloodthirsty assholes. They don’t believe in the Masquerade and they fucking _hate_ the Camarilla. They must’ve got wind of the gathering here, figured it’d be a perfect opportunity to raise a little hell, put some heat on the new ‘prince.’”

“So it’s an undead turf war.”

“Heh. You could say that. Truth is, you came along at a...well, let’s say an _interesting_ time. The Camarilla, the Sabbat – they’re the new kids around here. Lotta kindred already had stakes down in L.A. long before they got here, and now we got every ancient rivalry playin’ out all over the city. That’s a whole lotta jittery, high-strung predators trying to cling to their little pieces of eternity.”

Madison frowned and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You know, this whole ‘immortal vampire’ thing is losing its luster fast.”

He chuckled. “Sorry, kid, but there’s just as many assholes dead as there were living, all still locked in the same old political bullshit and social backstabbing. It’s enough to make you wanna rip someone’s spine out.” He grinned at the look she pinned him with. “No? Just me?”

Unearthly howls and blood-choked screams sounded from somewhere below them. “Finally,” Jack muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “’Bout time the cavalry got here.”

She rose cautiously to stand beside him, peering down into the alley just in time to witness the hulking creature that had decapitated her murderer disintegrate another vampire with a gesture. As the vampire’s charred skeleton crumbled to ash, two ghostly wolves, jaws dripping with blood, rounded the corner and padded to the behemoth’s side. As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced up, his inhuman gaze finding hers almost immediately despite the distance and low lighting.

A shiver ran up her spine as she remembered the sound of the sword slicing through Liam’s neck. “So what the hell is _he_?”

Jack grunted as the massive kindred turned away, his lupine companions trailing him through a wooden gate and out of sight. “That would be the sheriff – the prince’s lapdog and enforcer all in one, and the only reason LaCroix wasn’t immediately chucked out on his lily-white ass when he arrived claiming Camarilla sovereignty in L.A.” He glanced at her and sighed. “Ah, hell – your head’s probably spinning enough as it is. Tell you what, kid – you finish cleaning up LaCroix’s messes, you come find me at the Last Round and we’ll talk, okay?”

She shrugged helplessly and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Why not? Kindred 101 – you can forward me the syllabus.”

“Thattagirl,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder with a grin. “Now let’s get the hell outta here while it’s still quiet, yeah?” Not waiting for a response, he ducked through the shattered window and onto the fire escape. Madison gingerly followed, the rusted metal groaning in complaint.

The sky began to spit rain. She grumbled under her breath and folded her arms uselessly over her head. “Don’t suppose being undead makes your hair any more manageable.”

Jack laughed. “Sorry, kid, can’t say I ever noticed.”

A horn sounded from the street as their feet touched asphalt once again. “Welp, sounds like your ride’s here,” Jack said, glancing toward the end of the alley. He fixed her with a crooked smile. “Give ‘em hell, kid.”

Her own smile was less certain. “Right. Thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She nodded, trying to project a confidence she didn’t feel, and walked out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

LaCroix frowned down at the pile of correspondence littering his desk. News of the Sabbat raid had spread like wildfire through the kindred community, so of course those who would otherwise deny his rule were clamoring for Camarilla protection, demanding to know how he planned to safeguard them from further attack. He had no doubt that however he chose to respond, the rabble would be convinced he was handling it poorly – such was the folly of leadership. As if he’d survived as long as he had and risen to his rank by basing his decisions on nothing more than whimsical tosses of the dart.

He sat back with a grimace, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The city had languished too long under Anarch rule. They were uncoordinated, undisciplined – their staggering losses against the Kuei-jin were proof of that. They couldn’t seem to grasp that the strong rose to positions of power for a _reason_, too in love with their prattle about _égalité et liberté_. Their gross naiveté to the realities of the world would be amusing if it weren’t a direct threat to Camarilla rule. To _his_ rule.

And Nines – his lip curled. They venerated him as a Prince, a populist savior for the common kindred. That he had _dared_ voice his objection to Camarilla law before the entire court… He needed to be dealt with. For all their collectivist propaganda, Nines was the figurehead the Anarchs rallied around. If he fell, the rest would scatter. Cut the head from a snake and the body might thrash, but it was only the last agonized spasms of a creature already dead.

He thumbed idly through the stack of papers before him, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. The Anarchs, the Kuei-jin, the Sabbat...he didn’t lack for enemies these nights. He would have to keep them at one another’s throats – he couldn’t fight a war on three fronts.

The buzzing of his phone pulled him from his thoughts; he tilted the screen toward him to find an email notification from his newly adopted childe. His jaw tightened imperceptibly before he opened it.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_Subject: I’m here_  
This place is a shit hole. Sir.

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. Clearly the fledgling felt safe enough, removed as she was from his presence, to fall back into flippant disrespect.

> _RE: I’m here_  
Do not test my patience with whining. I have made my tolerance for such behavior quite clear. It is discreet. That is all that matters.
> 
> Is your email address meant to be amusing?  
– SL

He fired off his reply and tried to turn his attention back to his work, but his phone vibrated again almost immediately.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
I’m sorry. It’s been a rough night.
> 
> You can blame your man Mercurio for the email address. I’m heading out to see him now, sir.

_A rough night_. He frowned. As if the circumstances of her evening excused such insolence.

> _RE: I’m here_  
Very well. I expect you will conduct yourself accordingly.  
– SL

Message sent, he set the phone aside and turned back to the myriad pleas, protests, and harassments spread across his work surface. He was allowed almost an hour of productivity before his phone buzzed again.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
So...I have a question.

> _RE: I’m here_  
Then ask.  
– SL

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
Promise you won’t get mad?

This was insufferable.

> _RE: I’m here_  
Why should I promise something so asinine? Ask your question or don’t, but stop wasting my time.  
– SL

Blessed silence. He picked up another petition, managed to scan a paragraph before his phone vibrated with another email notification.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
Someone told me we can’t have sex. Is that true?

LaCroix went perfectly, rigidly still.

> _RE: I’m here_  
I fail to see how this has any bearing on the tasks you have been assigned.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
It has “bearing” on my understanding of kindred society. You said you were going to teach me.

He was going to _flay_ Mercurio.

> _RE: I’m here_  
We are not discussing this.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
Why not?

He grit his teeth. Why did she insist on pursuing this? Was it some quirk of her Toreador blood? Her clan did fall prey to their little obsessions, but usually only fixated upon baubles. Or…

His blood ran cold, brain racing. Sebastian had spent as little time as possible on the childe – he hadn’t expected her to live long enough to make her worth any effort. The strength of her blood mattered little to him if it was splashed across an alley wall. But she had survived. And now this stubborn preoccupation with mortal passions that should no longer hold sway over her…

His phone vibrated in his hand.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
You’ve made it very clear the way I conduct myself reflects on you. I can’t avoid a faux pas if I don’t know how. Sir.

The rationality of her argument calmed some of his agitation, but the specter of thin blood, once raised, was difficult to dispel. It was an eventuality he would have to worry about another time – if she truly was thin-blooded, it was doubtful she would survive much longer. For now, he set his jaw and answered her.

> _RE: I’m here_  
We are capable of the mechanics, yes. But we require blood to make the act pleasurable, and it is widely regarded as a needless waste. Blood should be a kindred’s greatest passion. I trust we never need speak of this again.  
– SL

He glared at the screen as he waited for her response.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]_  
_RE: I’m here_  
I understand.
> 
> Thank you, sir.

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. She wasn’t even a night old – her ignorance was hardly her fault. He decided he could afford to be magnanimous.

> _RE: I’m here_  
Questions regarding your new life are understandable.

If infuriating.

> I will forward what material I’m able to answer any others you may have.  
– SL

Anything to avoid another conversation like this one. He sank back in his chair, one hand rising to massage his temples. There was a reason he had never sired progeny, either before or after his death. To be saddled with one now – fate had an odd sense of humor.

He was still mulling over the vagaries of chance when his phone rang. His frown deepened when he saw the incoming call was from Maximillian Strauss. “Regent. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Good evening, Prince LaCroix.” The Tremere primogen’s voice was placid as a still lake. “I apologize for having to trouble you further this night.”

For the love of St. Martin – could no one in this damned city simply come out and say what they wanted? “How may I assist you, Strauss?” he asked, one hand still shadowing his eyes.

“I do not wish to add to your burdens, but an apprentice has made me aware of another breach in our Masquerade.”

Sebastian straightened. “What? How?”

“It seems a Malkavian youth became enamored of a kine television show centered on ‘exposing’ the supernatural. To prove his admiration, he sent the producers a vial of werewolf blood.”

Sebastian’s temples began to throb in earnest. Of course the breach had come from one of the twice-damned Malkavians. “I see. Where is this blood now?”

“The show’s producers forwarded it on to a blood clinic in Santa Monica. I can dispatch a neonate to retrieve it on your order.”

Sebastian sat back, considering. “Why are you the one bringing me this news, Strauss? If the whelp is Malkavian, it should’ve fallen to his sire or primogen to inform me of his transgression.”

Strauss hesitated. “It is my understanding the childe is Caitiff, with no sire willing to acknowledge him. And Grout has been...difficult to reach of late. I felt this news too important to waste time waiting for him to reply to my missive.”

Sebastian tapped a finger against his desk. “Then you have the fledgling in your custody?”

“We are holding him at the chantry for now.”

“I’ll have my sheriff collect him immediately.” Sebastian stood and paced to the wall of windows overlooking the city. “I have an agent already in Santa Monica – I’ll forward them the details of this transgression. It will be handled within the hour.”

“Liam’s misbegotten childe? You trust much to one so young.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re exceedingly well-informed regarding her movements.”

“I must be well-informed in all matters to serve the Camarilla, my prince.” There was no trace of insolence or insult in the regent’s tone, but it grated all the same.

“Indeed.” He turned his head to follow the flight of a low-flying plane. “It was not Liam’s childe I was speaking of, however.” Petty, perhaps, but he didn’t like the man assuming so much.

“I see. Forgive my presumption. I shall instruct my apprentices to expect your sheriff shortly.”

“See that you do. Good evening, Regent.” Not waiting for a response, he disconnected the call. Eyes fixed on the light-studded horizon, he simply stood for a moment, running his thumb across the screen and thinking.

He turned abruptly and returned to his desk. A press of a button and his sheriff stood before him. “There is a Malkavian whelp being held at the Tremere chantry. He must be relocated to more suitable environs until his trial can commence.” The imposing kindred nodded and turned away to do his bidding without a word. Sebastian suppressed a sigh. If only all of his underlings were so completely, unquestioningly loyal. 

He held himself stiffly as he sank back into his chair, trapping his grimace behind the cage of his fingers. He was surrounded by vipers; he would have to make himself the most poisonous among them if he wished to survive.


	4. Chapter 4

Madison rapped her knuckles against Mercurio’s door, pressing her ear to the jamb when she received no response. “Mercurio?” Nothing. She cast a glance down the hall, eyeing the marble flooring. She’d cleaned up the mess as best she could, but her newly heightened sense of smell could detect the traces she’d missed in the cracks and joinings between the tiles. It turned her stomach that even knowing how it had got there, the scent made her mouth water.

She knocked again, harder. “Mercurio!”

Silence. She threw another glance down the hall, making sure she hadn’t attracted any curious neighbors before she tested the door. The handle turned easily beneath her hand, and, with a final glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the apartment.

The ghoul was where she’d left him, sprawled in a bloody mess across his couch. She ran a critical eye across his prone form. He was still in bad shape, but if she looked closely it appeared his wounds weren’t as severe, his flesh re-knitting itself even in the short time she’d been gone. She breathed a silent sigh of relief and knelt down beside his head. “Hey, man, you didn’t go and die on me, did you?”

He cracked an eye open, struggling to focus on her face for a second before he managed a pained smirk. “Die on you, sweetheart? Never.”

She rolled her eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like most of my insides are on my outside. Morphine took the edge off, but I still can’t move my fuckin’ legs.” His brow creased in confusion. “Thought you were heading to The Asylum.”

Her lips thinned. “Yeah. Already been and came back.”

“Already, huh? What’s up?”

“Do you know anything about ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” His gaze swam out of focus as he tried to think through the haze of pain and morphine. “Can’t say that I do. Why the hell’re you asking about ghosts all of a sudden?”

She made a moue of distaste. “I have to do a favor for Therese Voerman before she’ll call off the feud. I was hoping you’d be able to confirm something she told me.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“That they can’t hurt you.” She sighed and pushed herself to her feet. “I have to go if I’m going to make it out to the hotel and back before sunrise. You hang in there, okay?”

“Hey, wait – hold up a sec,” Mercurio said, groaning as he levered his upper body off the cushions. “Got a favor to ask ya, since you’re here.”

She arched an eyebrow as she turned back to face him. “Another one?”

“Yeah, yeah – I know what I owe you already, no need to keep bringin’ it up. LaCroix sent me a job, gotta be handled tonight. I can’t tell him I can’t do it without explaining what happened with the Astrolite, and that – ”

“Would get you killed,” she finished. She huffed when he nodded, pivoting to pace the length of the couch. “What’s the job?”

“The blood clinic got their hands on some werewolf blood. They test it, we’re all screwed. You gotta break in and get it back.”

She gnawed absently on her thumbnail, a line tracing itself between her brows. “That’s it? Just break in and get it back?”

“I mean, you gotta be discreet – don’t let anyone see you, don’t hurt anyone. But yeah, that’s it. Could you quit the pacing? You’re makin’ me nervous.”

She came to a halt, thumbnail still trapped between her teeth as she considered. LaCroix hadn’t given her a timeline regarding the destruction of the Sabbat warehouse, but he didn’t strike her as a patient man. He’d also made it clear she wasn’t free to move on with her unlife until the situation had been handled. On the other hand, she believed Mercurio when he said LaCroix would have him killed – she’d witnessed the man’s detached, almost bored demeanor while overseeing Liam’s execution, apparently for nothing more than a bureaucratic oversight.

She felt a familiar pulse of anger that quickly faded as her gaze slid back to Mercurio. He was watching her, one hand laid gingerly against his healing ribs. He’d already begged for his life once tonight – he apparently didn’t feel the need to repeat himself now.

She exhaled sharply as she turned to face him again. “You know how much you owe me for this, right?”

His battered face split into a grin. “I know it. Thanks, doll – you’re a lifesaver.”

“Mm. Just don’t die while I’m gone. I’ll check on you tomorrow night, okay?”

“Yeah.” His chuckle was a thin, choked sound. “I’ll be here.”

–

Four hours later Madison shifted the manhole cover back into place in the alley beside her apartment building. She wore a jeweled pendant around her neck, the metal uncomfortably warm against her dead flesh. She checked to make sure the tattered diary was still tucked into the waistband of her jeans before rising wearily to her feet. The threat of dawn swelled on the horizon, causing her to shudder in instinctual revulsion, but her throat burned with thirst.

The blood that drew her to the back of the building was slow, sluggish; she wasn’t surprised to find it was one of the city’s homeless curled in a make-shift bed beside the building’s dumpster. The man startled awake as she knelt next to him. “The fuck you doin’ lady?” he slurred, regarding her with narrowed eyes.

“I just wanted to give you this,” she said, holding up a twenty-dollar bill. His eyes traveled from the money to her face and back again, his tongue darting out to wet the corner of his lips. She shrugged. “Hey, if you don’t want it...”

“Now wait, I didn’t say that – !” He sat forward as she drew away, reaching after the money. Faster than thought, she surged forward, pressing the bill into his hand as her teeth latched into his throat. He made a small, startled sound before his head sagged back and he went limp beneath her.

His blood was bland, unsatisfying, managing only to blunt her hunger before she made herself release him. “Sorry,” she said softly, closing his fingers around the bill and pulling the blankets back up around his shoulders.

She caught a bead of blood trailing down her chin with her thumb, sucking it back into her mouth as she stood. Hunger still had its claws in her, but the growing light in the east made her reluctant to risk a foray into the streets in search of further prey. Grumbling, she removed the pendant from around her neck and stuffed it in her pocket before heading for the side entrance.

An unfamiliar young man was slouched in the doorway, attention fixed on his phone. Madison paused long enough to be polite, clearing her throat irritably when he failed to acknowledge her. “You gonna prop up that doorway all morning?”

He startled. “Hey man, sorry,” he said, straightening. He glanced at her, then did a double-take, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. “Wait, say that again.”

She frowned at him. “Look, I’m tired, okay? You mind moving so I can get by?”

“Aw, man!” He beamed. “You – you’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

She made herself laugh, even as the gorge rose in her throat. “Wow, what the hell are you smoking, _man_? Must be some good shit.”

She tried to push past him, but he refused to be moved. She stepped back, confused. She hadn’t tried to smash him into paste, but she’d put some force behind her actions. How’d he managed to stand against her?

“C’mon, girl, don’t bullshit me, those fangs are super obvious. I ain’t gonna tell no one – I just wanna talk!” His tone became wheedling when she remained silent. “Look, it’s okay, I swear! My name’s Knox Harrington. I’m a ghoul, I work for one of you! Aw, man – I can’t believe I’m actually getting the chance to talk to another vampire!”

Madison grabbed his arm, using her full strength to drag him out of the doorway, around the corner and back into the shadows of the alley. “Hey, ease up, girl!” he protested.

She rounded on him, slamming his back into the wall. “What the hell is your problem?” she demanded, bringing her face close to his. “Didn’t your...regnant teach you _anything_? Jesus H. Christ, you’re a walking Masquerade violation!”

His eyes widened. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry! I just – ”

“You should be,” she snapped. “I watched the Camarilla behead a man earlier tonight – I won’t be next just because you can’t keep your mouth shut!”

His expression was the picture of frightened earnestness. “I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m sorry. This is all still kinda new for me, and I don’t get to meet many of you – I got carried away. Won’t happen again, I swear.”

The Beast wanted to rip his throat out and bathe in his blood. Madison locked her jaw and made herself step away. Knox straightened his jacket, eyeing her warily. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay, but when’s the last time you fed?” A laugh that was little more than a growl trickled up her throat. Knox’s expression grew distressed. “Aw, man – look, girl – ”

“My name is Madison,” she cut in irritably.

“Look, Madison,” he corrected hastily, “listen, you can’t sleep like this. You’ll be _way_ worse when you wake up, you might hurt someone! Just – didn’t anyone tell you how dangerous that can be? I mean, if you wind up hurting someone around here, that could draw attention to my master and that – geez, I don’t even wanna think about how bad that could be.”

“I _tried_,” she said. “It didn’t...do much good.”

“Oh man, oh man.” Knox ran a hand into his hair, tugging lightly in agitation. She watched something in his gaze harden before he straightened. “Then feed on me.”

She could only stare blankly. “What?”

“You can’t sleep like this – you _can’t_,” he said earnestly. “There’s no time to find someone else, so you gotta feed on me.”

The darkness within her snapped and snarled; still, she hesitated. “Your regnant won’t mind?”

Doubt crept into his expression. “Aw, man, I didn’t – I don’t know, man! I didn’t think of that. But he definitely wouldn’t want you to lose control, so – ” He nodded, having talked himself through his crisis. “So go ahead!”

Despite the creature howling beneath her skin, she felt awkward and exposed as she stepped back up to him. It felt unbearably intimate when he settled his hands against her waist and tilted his head to give her better access; flustered, she dropped her gaze, equal parts embarrassed and annoyed that she felt like a teenager on her first date. “Hey,” he said, giving her a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, really. Do it so you can get inside before the sun comes up, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, refusing to acknowledge how watery her voice sounded. She raised her head again, gaze skating across his before she leaned in further and bit down. His grip on her waist tightened before it went slack, his hands falling away as his body sagged, held upright only by her hands on his shoulders pressing him into the alley wall.

When she was finished she lowered him to the ground, slapping lightly at his face until his gaze swam back into focus. “Hey,” she said, ducking her head to better meet his eyes. “You gonna be okay?”

He smiled dreamily. “Hey, did you know you got a – ” He gestured at her chin, chuckling when she scowled and wiped the blood away. “Yeah, I’m good, man. Gimme a minute and I’ll be right as rain.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him, but the pending dawn was searing the sky. “Okay. Thanks,” she added, somewhat lamely.

“You got it, girl. Glad I got to meet ya.”

“Yeah. Same here, Knox. See you around.”

She left him propped against the wall and made her way up to the cramped, run-down apartment LaCroix had seen fit to provide for her. Weariness pulled at her as she shut the apartment door, but she took the pendant and the diary and hid them behind a loose tile in the bathroom wall before dragging herself to the laptop Mercurio had set up for her use. Plywood nailed into the window frames sealed out the sun, but she could sense it breaking over the horizon as she opened the laptop and waited for it to boot up.

The only new email was from Mercurio:

> _From: [merc879@sol.vtm]_  
_Subject: Where Wolf?_  
Hey. LaCroix’s sending out a courier with a little something as thanks for the clinic job. Stop by tomorrow night and I’ll pass it along.  
– M

> _RE: Where Wolf?_  
Will do.

Reply sent, she deleted the message before taking the two steps necessary to crawl over the bed frame and onto the dirty mattress. It smelled of must and mildew; she was still trying to figure out how she was supposed to get any sleep on it when her conscious mind abruptly went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

“I understand there’s been no response from Grout, Regent, but I fail to see how this is a matter that requires my intervention.” LaCroix leaned back in his chair, eyeing the work Strauss’s phone call had pulled him from. “The man’s...eccentricities are well-known.”

“He has never before shirked his duties as primogen,” Strauss said.

“Nor has he yet done so,” LaCroix rebutted. “So long as Grout is present at the fledgling’s trial, there’s no need for him to expend unnecessary effort on a sireless whelp.”

“I...yes, of course. Forgive my unease. There is something...unsettling in the air these last few nights.”

“I didn’t take you for the superstitious sort, Strauss.”

“I do not believe Gehenna approaches on a bloodied tide, my prince. But I confess I would rest easier once we know the contents of the _Elizabeth Dane’s_ cargo.”

LaCroix swiveled so he could gaze out at the city’s skyline. “Indeed. A shame the ship has attracted the attention of the kine authorities – our own investigative efforts will have to be considerably more circumspect.”

“A task I am sure you have well in hand.” Again, there was nothing he could call disrespectful in the regent’s tone, but his hackles rose just the same. “I thank you for your indulgence; I will not take any more of your time. Good evening, Prince LaCroix.”

“Good evening.” He hung up, resting his chin in his hand as his gaze tracked across the city spread below him.

The house of cards was threatening to come crashing down around him. He’d hoped it would be some time before Alistair Grout’s absence was noticed, but of course no child of Malkav could be expected to adhere to a sensible timeline. If only the fool hadn’t been so transparent in his suspicion.

And the _Elizabeth Dane_ – the blasted ship had been the subject of rumors and speculation among the kindred of the city since they had learned it was transporting an ancient kine artifact known as the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Whispers of Antediluvians and other portents of Gehenna circulated like wildfire in the streets, the prognostications becoming more dire with each repetition as the city worked itself into a frenzy. The fact that the ship had been found adrift at sea with no sign of her crew only stoked the flames.

The phone ringing in his hand dragged his attention back to the present moment.

“Hey boss, you turned on the news recently?”

Bertram Tung’s voice brought to mind the rasping whine of a poorly-maintained engine. The Nosferatu was one of his best agents, however, so Sebastian swallowed his irritation over the interruption to his thoughts. “I assume this is your colorful way of informing me the warehouse is no more?”

“Most of it’s lying at the bottom of the Pacific,” Tung confirmed. “My crew reports no survivors – it doesn’t look like they even realized your fledgling was there until the blast put ‘em beyond caring. Not bad for a green kid.”

“No, it’s not,” Sebastian agreed. The childe continued to surprise him. “Where is she now?”

Tung smacked his lips. “Brought her back about forty minutes ago. She was in rough shape, so I sent her over to The Asylum, maybe whispered in her ear which of the patrons might be willing to make a little donation to her upkeep.”

“I see.”

Bertram chuckled. “Relax, boss. The kid’s a Toreador, she could charm the last coin out of a miser’s fist. I figured she deserved something nice after getting outta there with her hide.”

“Very well. Have there been any further developments regarding the _Elizabeth Dane_?”

“Mm, now there’s the million-dollar question,” Tung said. “Apparently the entire crew disappearing isn’t the only weird thing going on with that ship. The Coast Guard put out a call they want to be met by police when they make port. Something about a disturbance on board.”

The creature within him stirred. “What sort of disturbance?”

“Can’t say. Everyone’s being real tight-lipped about the whole thing.” If LaCroix hadn’t been one of the people waiting for said information, he might’ve been amused at how miffed his agent sounded concerning his lack of actionable intelligence.

“I need more than rumors. Can you get someone on board once she docks?”

The Nosferatu sniffed. “Of course I can. You let me know the time and place, we’ll be ready.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.”

“One last thing, boss,” Tung said before he could hang up. “Your fledgling mentioned the name ‘Beckett’ when I picked her up.”

Merciful Christ, it never ended. “And where, dare I ask, did she hear that name?”

“Claimed she ran into him after the warehouse went up. Said he introduced himself by name, asked some pointed questions about any weird stuff happening in the city, then wished her luck and disappeared back into the night.”

It certainly sounded like the man’s usual modus operandi. “Look into it,” he ordered. “I need to know why he’s here, and, more importantly, if he’s planning to stay.”

“You got it, boss.”

LaCroix disconnected the call, trying to massage away a growing headache. Smiling Jack and Beckett possibly in the same city – _his_ city – surely there was no sin he could have committed deserving of such a punishment.

Speaking of punishments… He opened his email, frowning when he found no new communication from the fledgling. Tung claimed to have brought her back forty minutes ago; her hunger should be well sated. Perhaps he needed to make his expectations more explicit.

He grimaced as he scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over the number for Therese Voerman. The Malkavian baron so transparently, painfully desperate to be something other than what she was, to be accepted and given a place within the Camarilla. While her obvious ambitions made her a relatively simple tool to manipulate, he didn’t trust any Malkavian that seemed able to suppress the madness inherent in their blood; he was convinced it was only a matter of time until it all came roiling to the surface.

It was infuriating that he was reduced to employing her assistance.

The phone barely had time to ring before she answered. “Prince LaCroix – what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Good evening, Baron. I trust this night finds you well.”

Her laughter set his teeth on edge. “_Very_ well. A long-standing piece of family business has finally been put to rest. But please – what can I do for you?”

“I need access to your security feeds.”

“Of course.” He heard the tap of her fingers against a keyboard. “Done.”

The words stuck in his throat. “You have my thanks.”

“Of course. If there’s anything else – ”

“Good evening, Baron.”

He disconnected the call and turned to his computer. It took but a few keystrokes and he was viewing a live feed of The Asylum’s security footage, black-and-white lights strobing across bodies writhing to music he couldn’t hear. He scoured the dance floor, lips thinning when he found the fledgling – well, _dancing_ hardly seemed the appropriate word. Grinding against her partner in a fully-clothed imitation of a sexual act seemed more apropos. She thought _this_ was suitable behavior for the childe of a Prince?

He snatched up his phone, seething.

“Hey, boss, what’s – ”

“Mercurio.” The ghoul fell silent. “Go to The Asylum and find the childe. Drag her out of there by any means necessary and then report back to me.” He didn’t wait for a response, hanging up and setting the phone aside with a deliberate gentleness. He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled and eyes narrowed to slits as he continued to watch the feed.

He blinked and sat forward when he saw the fledgling tilt her head, bringing her fangs dangerously close to her partner’s neck. His fingers dug into the arms of his chair. Surely she wasn’t foolish enough to try and feed so blatantly. The young man ducked his head, bringing his lips to her ear as he somehow managed to pull her even closer, and Sebastian felt a grudging relief as he realized they were simply using the cover of the no-doubt deafening club music to converse privately.

Which begged the question of what they were discussing – and why the fledgling had thought it important enough to delay reporting back to him. He settled back in his seat to wait.

Mercurio appeared on the feed a scant ten minutes later, striding through the crowd with a single-minded focus. The childe and her partner looked up at his approach, and Sebastian suppressed a start when he realized the young man who’d been pawing at her was Bertram Tung’s ghoul. He felt a grim satisfaction at the fear that blossomed in her face as Mercurio leaned forward to shout in her ear; she disentangled herself from Knox’s hold immediately, expression faintly pleading as she latched onto Mercurio’s arm, but his ghoul only turned and led her back toward the entrance of the club.

His phone rang barely ten seconds after they’d disappeared from the security cameras. “I’ve got her, boss.”

“Hand her the phone.” Her tremulous breathing let him know his instruction had been followed, and for a second he felt a sharp sense of vertigo at the stark reminder of how very young she was. “I find it curious that I have to hear of your success from someone else,” he said smoothly, shaking the moment away. “Most childer in your shoes would be shouting their accomplishments from the very rooftops.”

“I – ”

“Tell me, was I unclear in my instructions?” he queried, standing and stepping away from his desk. “Because I feel that I’ve been rather explicit in my expectations.”

“Knox said – ”

“Knox,” he said, voice flat. She stuttered, excuses petering into a miserable silence. “No, please – _do_ go on. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“He said…” He could hear Mercurio’s voice in the background, the words muffled but sounding suspiciously like “Christ, just _tell_ him, doll.” Before he could even think to address _that_ statement the fledgling spit out: “Do you know anything about Asian vampires?”

LaCroix’s blood froze in his veins. There were Kuei-jin in Santa Monica? “Give the phone back to Mercurio.”

“Boss?”

“Bertram Tung’s ghoul – don’t let him leave. I’ll call you back.” Another disconnected call, another line ringing in his ear.

The Nosferatu’s surprise at the quick follow-up was evident in his voice. “Boss? What’s up?”

“Why am I only now learning that there are Kuei-jin in Santa Monica?” LaCroix asked, voice deceptively soft.

“Ah. Heh. Didn’t see the need to trouble you with it,” Tung said. “It’s only the one that’s been sniffing around – nothing we can’t handle.”

“Then why is your ghoul dragging my childe into your mess?”

Tung coughed. “Come on, boss – you know how this game is played. And she _did_ just blow a Sabbat warehouse straight to Hell.”

“So, you not only presume to decide what information I should or should not be privy to regarding the movements of one of the Camarilla’s enemies, you admit to manipulating a fledgling under my protection into doing your dirty work for you.” He paused, giving the Nosferatu a chance to speak, but the kindred remained silent. “I find myself disappointed at your lack of respect, Tung.”

“Listen, boss – uh, Prince LaCroix – I uh, I didn’t mean any disrespect. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t.”

Tung cleared his throat. “So...I’ll tell Knox to leave your fledgling alone, then. Don’t worry about the Kuei-jin, I’ll make sure it gets handled.”

“No,” LaCroix said, taking a seat behind his desk once more.

There was a short silence. “Uh...no?” Tung said carefully.

“I am Prince of Los Angeles – I will not ignore a Kuei-jin incursion in Santa Monica. My childe will accompany whatever party you raise to hunt this interloper down.”

“Uh, sure – I mean, of course, whatever you say, boss.”

“Good. I expect the matter to be resolved before sunrise.” He hung up before the Nosferatu could reply, one hand rising to massage the temple above his left eye, which was beginning to throb, as he dialed Mercurio.

“ – didn’t _do_ anything, man!” The agitated voice of Tung’s ghoul could be heard whining in the background as Mercurio picked up.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Please inform Tung’s ghoul and the childe that they are free to leave and go about their evenings.”

“Sure thing. Anything else?”

LaCroix hesitated, weighing the options before he shook his head. “No. That will be all.” He set the phone aside, fingers still rubbing soothing circles against his temple as he reached for the intercom. “I want more eyes on Chinatown,” he said without preamble, ignoring the whimpers issuing from the sheriff’s interrogation chambers. “And for the love of God, tell them to be discreet.” That done, he dug through his drawers for the most recent reports from the field regarding the Kuei-jin’s movements. How had his operatives missed this attempted infiltration?

And, more importantly, what did that witch think she was playing at?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between updates. I'm still not sure I'm 100% happy with this chapter, so any concrit would be greatly appreciated. :)

Madison opened her eyes, then blinked in confusion at the smooth plaster of the ceiling above her. The ceiling of the rat-hole LaCroix had her staying in was cracked and peeling, looked one strong gust of wind away from falling in on her while she slept. She turned her head, gaze tracking along the unfamiliar ceiling to the unfamiliar walls and furnishings as alarm bells began to clang in her head. Where – ?

Remembrance slammed into her; she jolted into a sitting position, hands flying to her stomach where the Kuei-jin’s sword had stabbed through her. The sheets beneath her were flecked with dried blood, but her skin was unbroken, the defensive lacerations she’d taken on her arms completely closed, no thin ridges of scar tissue to prove they had ever existed.

The door clicked open, light from the hallway flooding the room, and she glanced up to find Mercurio standing in the doorway. “Well, hey – look who’s back in the land of the living. Metaphorically speaking, anyway.” He flicked on the lights, hands in his pockets as he moved to stand in front of her. “How you feeling, sweetheart?”

Thirst ripped through her. “How’d I get here?” she asked, trying to ignore how incredibly aware of his heartbeat she was as she swung her feet to the floor.

“Knox brought you,” the ghoul said, producing a blood pack and holding it out to her. “Sounds like the two of you were involved in quite the dust-up last night.”

“You could say that,” Madison muttered. She could also say it’d only been Bertram’s timely intervention that had prevented the separation of her head from her neck. She snatched the blood pack out of his hand and drained it in a few deep swallows.

Mercurio grunted and turned away. “Shower’s yours if you want it, and there’s more blood in the fridge,” he threw over his shoulder as he ambled back toward the door. “Grab as much as you like on your way out."

“My way out?” she echoed, eyebrows knitting together. “You throwing me out, Mercurio?”

He glanced back at her with a faint smile. “’Course not. But the warehouse is gone, yeah? LaCroix’s gonna wanna see you, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

She dropped her gaze to the empty blood bag, scowling. “No night off for getting stabbed, huh?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, sweetheart. Harder to kill equals higher expectations regarding job performance.”

“I mean, I got stabbed a _lot_,” she pressed, plucking at the holes in her blouse.

Mercurio’s grin spread as he shrugged. “I’ve got a jacket you can borrow.”

She sighed. “You’re not letting me wriggle out of this, are you?”

“Not even a little.”

“Fine.” She huffed and pushed herself to her feet. “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”

“Aw, c’mon – you’re not that bad, kiddo.”

That pulled a grudging chuckle from her, and she fixed him with a crooked grin. “Thanks, Mercurio.”

“Any time, doll.”

–

Madison cracked her eyes open for the second time that night. Her vision was swimming and there was a foul taste in the back of her throat, but her discomfort wasn’t the focus of her attention – that was taken by the feral-looking vampires looming over her, one of whom was currently grinding his foot into her chest just below her collar bone.

“Let’s drain it,” one of them growled.

“Too easy – let’s stake it and leave it out for the sunrise.”

The vampire pinning her to the ground sneered when he saw she was conscious. “It’s gonna die slow. Think you could blow up our warehouse and get away with it? Huh, lick?” He dug his heel a little harder into her chest, the smell of fetid earth rolling off him in waves.

“Let’s pull out its eyes and its tongue and its teeth.”

“I want its teeth. Camarilla _fuck_.” Another foot swung out of the darkness, catching her in the temple. Madison cried out as her head snapped to the side, pain ricocheting through her skull.

“Boys, I think we could all use a little entertainment.” With a sadistic smile, the vampire digging his foot into her chest bore down hard enough that she felt something snap.

A gunshot sounded from somewhere off to her left. One of the Sabbat stumbled back, clutching the side of his head. “Son of a bitch!” Blood oozed between his fingers.

The others drew away from her, snarling as they turned to face their assailant. Madison groaned and rolled far enough onto her side to spit out a mouthful of blood, squinting up at the dark-haired kindred who’d spoken against LaCroix in the theater. His gun was currently leveled at her attackers. “Leave,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the mouth of the alley.

The vampire he’d shot laughed. “There’s three of us, Rodriguez. What’re you gonna do – shoot us?”

Rodriguez smiled and patted the grenade hanging from his belt.

The Sabbat growled in frustration. “This ain’t over.” He turned to fix her with a vicious glare. “We’ll find you,” he spat, aiming one last kick at her shoulder. “And you, Rodriguez,” he threw at the Anarch. “You’re both dead – nobody messes with the Sabbat and lives!”

“Keep moving,” Rodriguez ordered, keeping his gun trained on them as they started to slink away. He turned his attention to Madison as she struggled to her feet. “Trouble sure seems to like you.” He moved to help her up, pausing when one of the Sabbat turned and leapt at him. Rodriguez smirked when the other vampire came to a sudden halt, eyes widening as he glanced down at the gun barrel pressing into his chest. “Good effort.” He pulled the trigger. “Execution needs a little work.” The Sabbat burst into a cloud of ashen flames as his comrades turned and finally fled. Rodriguez watched them go, waiting until they disappeared around the corner before he turned back to face her. He started to say something, then shook his head and chuckled. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Madison muttered, gingerly picking the garbage out of her hair. “I’m going for that ‘freshly assaulted’ look.”

“Heh. I think you’ve nailed it.” He extended a hand out for her to shake. “Name’s Nines.”

“Madison.” She wrinkled her nose as she peeled a discarded food wrapper from Mercurio’s jacket. “You were at the theater.”

“Glad you remember,” he said, holstering his weapon. “That’s twice I’ve saved your ass, newbie.”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean, twice?”

He sighed. “Kid, I got things to do. Why don’t you pay me a visit at the Last Round tonight? I don’t know what you’ve heard so far, but I doubt it’s anything like the real story.”

“The Last Round?” The name sparked something in her memory – wasn’t that the bar Jack had mentioned? “Is that some sort of...” She wracked her brain for the word. “...Elysium?”

“We don’t need fancy Camarilla labels,” Nines said with a slight roll of his eyes. “But yeah, you’ll be safe there.”

Madison hesitated. She was supposed to be reporting to LaCroix, and she doubted he’d take kindly to her blowing him off to fraternize with the Anarchs. “I’ll try.”

Nines fixed her with a smile that straddled the line between pity and condescension. “You do that.” He clapped her on the shoulder as he moved past her toward the street. “Try and stay out of trouble, kid. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

Madison watched him walk away before she wrapped her borrowed jacket around her torn and now dirty clothing and continued on toward Venture Tower.

LaCroix looked up from his desk as she edged into the opulent penthouse office, pale blue eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance, and Madison clenched her hands into fists. What had she done to piss him off now?

“You were attacked.” It wasn’t a question, but she nodded as she came to a halt in front of him. There was no point denying it – the streaks of dirt and blood on her person were blatantly obvious. He sighed and sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “What happened?”

“There were Sabbat – three of them. They said they wanted revenge for the warehouse.”

His eyebrows rose. “You fought off three Sabbat?”

She tugged at the sleeve of her borrowed jacket. “Um, no – not exactly.” Her gaze flicked toward the sheriff standing at LaCroix’s shoulder. Was he glaring at her? Her throat was suddenly dry. “Nines showed up and scared them off.”

She steeled herself for his anger, but he only nodded. “I see. How fortuitous that in a city as large as this one, Mr. Rodriguez was present to play the savior.”

Something cold unfurled in the pit of her stomach. “You – you think he – ”

“You’ve had a taste of kindred politicking,” LaCroix said, studying her face closely. “You tell me – do you believe it a simple coincidence the leader of the Anarchs was exactly where he needed to be to save your life tonight?” He scoffed when she didn’t answer. “He does love to throw that cretinous charm of his brashly about. So, what exactly did Mr. Rodriguez have to say?”

“He said I didn’t know the real story.”

He arched an eyebrow, his amusement plain. “Predictable as ever in his proselytizing, I see.”

“And he asked me to visit him at the Last Round.”

“Did he, now?” LaCroix sat forward, tapping a finger against the polished surface of his desk. “Well, then, you should go – take the Anarch up on his offer and humor the by-the-numbers rhetoric he’s so obviously desperate to spew.”

“You...you want me to meet with him?”

LaCroix smiled. “Oh, yes – the sooner, the better. Before the chants of “fascist oppressor” from that dive of theirs clog the air and choke the local kine.”

She blinked, utterly perplexed. “Okay… I’ll go see him right now, then.” He only nodded and plucked a document from the top of a pile of paperwork, seeming to forget her existence entirely as he scanned through its contents and signed his name. Madison stared at him in bewilderment for another second before she turned to follow his instructions.

“Oh, and Miss Langford?” She paused and glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her, expression unreadable. “You’ve done well these past few nights. Continue in this vein and you may yet prove to be a genuine asset to this organization.” He let his gaze drop to the papers spread across his desk once more. “Return to me once you’ve spoken with the Anarchs. There is another task we need to discuss, and if I’m not mistaken, it appears you could use a bit of spending money. It’s hardly appropriate for the childe of the Prince of Los Angeles to be running around the city in torn and blood-stained raiment.”

“Right. I mean – yes, sir.” LaCroix didn’t look up again, and she took the opportunity to flee to the relative safety of the elevator.

The ride down to the lobby was enough to settle her nerves. Mostly. She wrapped Mercurio’s jacket around her torn blouse at the same time she wrapped enough Presence around herself to distract from her disheveled appearance, making a beeline for the street and studiously ignoring Officer Chunk’s “Bye, snack cake!” It was only on the sidewalk outside Venture Tower that she realized she had no idea where the Last Round was located.

With a sigh, she turned around, steeling herself for another conversation with Chunk.

–

“Well, if it ain’t the talk of the town: poster child for Camarilla benevolence.” The dark-skinned kindred sneered at her as she approached the stairs that led to the Last Round’s second floor. “What does the prince have his little bitch doin’ today?”

Madison frowned. “Look, Nines asked me to come, all right?”

“But you still had to go runnin’ to the capes to make sure you had permission, right?” He laughed snidely when she remained silent. “You even get to take a piss without his say-so?”

“Does Nines want to see me or not?”

He glared at her, though whether it was because he disliked what she represented or because she wouldn’t be drawn into his bullshit, she couldn’t say. “Yeah, Nines is expecting you. Mind your manners and don’t wear out your welcome, or I’ll be the one escorting your ashes to the door.”

“Charming,” she muttered. She brushed past him, resisting the urge to stomp up the stairs.

Nines was seated at one of the tables littering the cramped floor space, conversing in low tones with a red-haired vampire who glared daggers at her when she noticed Madison’s presence. The leader of the Anarchs glanced over his shoulder when he noticed his companion’s distraction, rising to his feet when his gaze fell on her. “You actually showed up,” he noted, coming to stand in front of her and extending a hand.

“Was I not supposed to?” Madison asked as she shook it.

He shrugged. “Wasn’t sure LaCroix would let you,” he said easily.

“Look, I get it, okay? LaCroix’s the devil and I have no free will of my own.” Madison scowled and crossed her arms across her chest. “Did you have something you wanted to actually _say_, or did I come all this way because you and your crew get your rocks off insulting me?”

The red-haired vampire’s glare became a glower, but Nines only sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about whatever Skelter said to you. But you got a right to know the score. The Camarilla – and _especially_ LaCroix – all they’re interested in is power. They only care about what you can do for them, how your life can be used to achieve their aims.”

“You think LaCroix would’ve stopped counting his money long enough to have your back when those Sabbat jumped you, Cammy?” the redhead broke in.

Rodriguez shot her a look. “Damsel...”

“No, Nines!” she shot back, smacking her palms against the table and rising to her feet. “You’ve saved this bitch’s life twice now and she’s still perfectly happy running around at that bastard’s beck and call – ”

“Okay. Thanks for the invitation, Nines, but it doesn’t seem like we have all that much to talk about.” Madison bared her fangs in a poor approximation of a smile before turning back toward the stairs.

“Hold up a sec, newbie – just hear me out.” Nines stopped her with a hand rested lightly against her arm. “You need to remember that you’re free to do whatever you want in all this. I know you feel like you owe that bastard – ”

“You don’t know anything,” she snapped, shaking his hand away.

He regarded her with poorly concealed frustration. “Look, kid, this is a mean existence – you need to think real hard about who you want your friends to be.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen how eager your lot are to be _friends_. Your recruitment methods could use a little fine-tuning.”

Damsel looked ready to start spitting nails; Nines laid a restraining hand on his fellow Anarch’s shoulder as he scowled at Madison. “Where’s this coming from, kid? You weren’t this hostile when I was saving your ass from those Sabbat.”

Madison jutted her chin, glaring right back at him. “Putting aside that your crew’s taken every opportunity to insult me? How _did_ you manage to be right where I needed you tonight?”

Damsel exploded. “That motherfucking son of a _bitch_,” she snarled.

“Damsel! Enough,” Nines snapped. “Go take a walk if you can’t keep it under control.” Damsel scowled, but held her tongue. “Trust that asshole to twist it like that,” he muttered, shaking his head. He suddenly looked tired. “Believe what you want, kid. You’re backing the wrong horse, but it’s your life. You know where to find us if you change your mind.”

“I’m not _backing_ anyone, I’m just – you know what? Never mind.” Madison raked her hair out of her face with one hand. “Thanks for saving me from the Sabbat, at least.”

Nines opened his mouth to reply, but Damsel beat him to it. “And LaCroix,” she sneered.

Madison’s gaze flicked over the woman, expression empty. “Have a good night.” She started back down the stairs. They didn’t move to stop her, and she stalked past Skelter and back into the L.A. night.

“Well, well – looky who made it back in one piece. How was Santa Monica, kiddo?” The smirk slid off of Jack’s face when she stepped around him. “Kid?”

“You know something – you’re right, Jack. There are just as many assholes dead as there were living,” she threw over her shoulder.

He sighed. “Hooo, boy. Which one of ‘em pissed you off?”

She came to an abrupt halt, hating the sting of moisture along her lids. “Do _not_ patronize me.”

He was suddenly beside her, head cocked as he studied her profile. “All right, kid. What’s eating you?”

“Nothing. Everything’s great,” Madison spat, starting to walk away again.

He arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, voice rich with amusement.

Madison’s patience, already worn thin, snapped. “Yeah, it’s just a great big joke, isn’t it?” she cried, whirling to face him with her arms akimbo. “I’m glad I amuse you all so damn much – you wanna take a crack at LaCroix’s errand girl, too? Because I have had just about – ”

“C’mon, kid.”

She cut her tirade short, hunching her shoulders and pinching the bridge of her nose to try and drive back the growing pressure behind her eyes. “Sorry. I’m cranky – death is a lot more complicated than I thought it’d be.”

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You get the chance to get any sight-seeing done in Santa Monica, or were you too busy runnin’ around at the beck and call of every vampire with a week’s worth of seniority over you?”

She huffed out a laugh, shaking her hair out of her eyes as she looked up into his face. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you say so.”

“Why are you all so convinced the Camarilla’s so awful?”

“I’m guessing by ‘you all’ you mean the Anarchs, right?” He ushered her out of the Last Round’s doorway, settling beside her on an empty bench.

“It’s just – from what I’ve heard you guys seem to believe in a lot of the same things: the Masquerade, retaining your Humanity – ”

“None of that shit’s what this fight is about,” Jack cut in testily.

“Then what _is_ it about?”

He looked her squarely in the eye. “It’s about living free, kid. About being able to wake up every night and not having to ask ‘how high’ every time LaCroix says ‘jump.’ About being more than a cold body to protect Elders too scared of their rivals’ schemes to poke their heads outta their hidey-holes. The Camarilla protects the people runnin’ the Camarilla – that’s it. Everyone else is just gristle for the machine.”

She lowered her gaze, picking at her cuticle as she considered his words. “Then why are you still willing to talk to me?”

“Because I’m old enough to realize you’re just doing what you have to to survive,” he said, leaning back to rest his arms across the back of the bench. “Ain’t your fault you got Embraced right as everything was going to shit, or that you got saddled with a sire like LaCroix. But you only got the excuse of being young for so long – there’ll come a time when you should know enough to know better, and want to do something about it.”

She looked up to meet his eyes again. “And if that time doesn’t come?”

They stared at each for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Jack sighed, the sound incredibly weary. “Then that’d be a real shame, kiddo.”

Madison was the first to look away, fingers curling tightly around each other in her lap.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently recovering from a concussion, so updates will probably be even more sporadic than they have been. Sorry. I hope you're all doing well and staying safe.

LaCroix swept his gaze across the bickering primogen, expression the very picture of long-suffering _ennui_ as he reclined in his desk’s chair. The Malkavian whelp’s trial, which was supposed to have commenced forty minutes ago, seemed to have been entirely forgotten in the wake of Alistair Grout’s continuing absence from the proceedings.

“Where’s the problem?” Gary Golden, Nosferatu primogen, waved one clawed hand dismissively in Strauss’s face. “This is an open-and-shut case – we don’t need him here to make a decision.”

LaCroix could read the regent’s affront in the stiffness of his shoulders, but the Tremere’s voice remained as implacable as ever. “We cannot pass judgment without a vote of _all_ the primogen.”

“Why not?” Gary leaned around the man, snapping his talons in the face of the Caitiff fledgling shackled at the sheriff’s feet. “Hey! Did you send that blood to the kine?”

The childe grinned. “Their magic boxes would have captured the flames of war spreading from the east.”

“Sounds like a ‘yes’ to me,” Gary said with a shrug.

Araldo Martín managed to tear his attention from the Rubens canvas he’d been fawning over since his arrival. “Primogen Strauss is correct,” the Toreador said, swirling the blood in his glass before taking an appreciative sip. “We are not Anarchs, after all.”

“I’m more concerned that no one can remember speaking with the man in recent nights.” Demetria Cambridge, straight-backed and severe in typical Ventrue fashion, tapped one perfectly lacquered nail against her glass. “Alistair is prone to his little fits of pique, but he has never failed in his duty to the Camarilla.”

Gary sniffed. “Lotta Sabbat between here and the Hills – maybe he didn’t want to risk the trip.”

“Or perhaps he was prevented from making it.”

Four sets of eyes turned to pin him like a butterfly to a lepidopterist’s board. Sebastian suppressed a sigh. “Then am I to understand it is the will of this council that this fledgling’s trial be postponed until the whereabouts of Primogen Grout can be ascertained?” Three of the primogen voiced their assent; Gary merely shrugged. “Very well,” LaCroix said, rising to his feet. He met the sheriff’s gaze as he waved a hand dismissively toward the fledgling. “Remove him.”

The childe’s head snapped up, his features stretching in a wide grin as he stared at the Ventrue. “We see you, little prince,” he crooned as the sheriff hauled him to his feet. “Your sins whisper to us.” He continued to rant as he was dragged toward the door. “Jester, prince, king – so many titles for so few nights. Your Beast stalks unchained, slave to your ambition. You play at Jyhad; your tower will sear the sky with the flames of your personal Gehenna.”

Demetria sighed sharply through her nose as the sheriff finally dragged the childe from the room. “Malkavians,” she muttered.

“Indeed,” Sebastian agreed, pretending not to notice the pensive slant Strauss’s brow had assumed. He settled one hand against the back of his chair, sweeping his gaze across their faces once again. “Is there any other business that needs to be brought before this council?” The clan elders shook their heads, Araldo’s attention straying back to the artwork that lined the office’s walls. “Then I declare this meeting adjourned. I’ll dispatch a search party to Primogen Grout’s residence immediately and contact you the minute I receive confirmation of his whereabouts.”

“Don’t forget to check under the beds, boss,” Gary supplied with a snicker.

LaCroix ignored him. “That will be all.”

His sheriff stepped back into the room as the primogen turned to leave, one large hand clapped atop his adopted childe’s shoulder. The fledgling’s face was a peculiar shade of puce; she hugged a pile of documents protectively against her chest, as if she didn’t trust the kindred at her back not to try and take them from her. The sheriff’s face, as always, betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

When he noticed the kindred bearing down on them, the Nagloper pulled the fledgling two steps to the side with him so as not to obstruct the elders’ exit. The primogen filed past them without a word – all except Strauss, who paused in front of the pair.

“Good evening, neonate,” he said, ignoring the sheriff’s presence entirely. “I have not had occasion to introduce myself before this night. I am Maximillian Strauss, Tremere primogen and regent of this city’s chantry.”

Madison’s gaze flicked toward Sebastian, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. He had no idea what Strauss thought he was playing at, but he wasn’t going to give the man anything to work with. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, allowing the regent to clasp her hand.

“And I you, neonate,” Strauss replied. “I understand you have been engaged in duties that benefit the Camarilla greatly these past few nights.”

“I was just doing what Prince LaCroix asked.” Sebastian suppressed a smirk.

“Indeed? He is fortunate to have acquired such a loyal and efficient retainer.” The childe’s jaw worked, but she remained silent. “I have duties I must attend to, but if you ever have need, I would be honored to receive you at the chantry. You will find it where the mystical sun burns.”

The fledgling made a valiant attempt to not appear confused by that statement. “Um. Okay. Thank you – sir.” Strauss nodded before gliding past her and out of the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, the sheriff began propelling the childe forward again, marching her to Sebastian’s desk before assuming his usual place at the prince’s shoulder.

Madison thrust her pile of paperwork at him. “From the _Elizabeth Dane_. Sir.”

LaCroix took the mess of papers, thumbing through them before he set them on the desk with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time to spare at the moment,” he said. “Just the bullet points, if you please.”

“Everyone on board was massacred.”

He stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“There was blood everywhere,” she said, gaze darting between his face and the sheriff. “And the sarcophagus...it looked like it might’ve been opened.”

Something cold slithered down his spine. “I see. Still, let’s not jump to conclusions. Leave this mess with me – I’ll read through the reports later. I know you’ve just returned, but I’m afraid I must call on you to perform another task.” A line drew itself between her brows, but she nodded and waited for him to continue. “Primogen Alistair Grout has either forgotten how to answer his phone, or is missing. The Sabbat’s boldness these past few nights has the entire city on edge – I need you to visit Grout’s mansion and pry him out of whatever crack he’s crawled into.”

“Is that all?” Her voice was carefully neutral.

“He’s Malkavian, so his behavior and home are...eccentric, to say the least; to make matters worse, he’s become extremely paranoid of late.”

She shifted uneasily. “Is he dangerous?”

He paused, studying her expression. “No more than any other Malkavian, I’d wager. I daresay the greatest threat you’ll face will be a long-winded lecture on the nature of your ‘affliction’ – the man positively adores the sound of his own voice.”

A smirk flickered across her face before she managed to school her expression. “Right. Where can I find him?”

“He resides in the Hollywood Hills. You don’t need to drag him back with you – merely have him contact me or his fellow primogen so we know he still lives.”

“All right.”

“A moment,” he said as she started to turn away. He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice when her gaze darted immediately toward the sheriff. “He’s not going to cut you in two, Miss Langford.”

Her expression was unreadable. “He did Liam.”

LaCroix frowned. “Look at me.” She did, gaze a mixture of trepidation and defiance. “Your sire was executed because he was a traitor who flouted the Camarilla’s laws. It was justice – nothing more, nothing less.” When she remained silent he tried a different tack. “I think you’re well aware, childe, that you never need wonder if you’ve displeased me.” She glanced away with a small frown. “And that by sparing you, I’ve tied my fate to yours.” Her gaze snapped back to his. “So there’s no need to continue wincing every time he breathes too loudly.”

She scrutinized his face before nodding. “Okay. Sorry.”

He waved the apology away. “To return to the matter at hand: Did you feel anything...strange while you were aboard the _Elizabeth Dane_?”

“Like what?”

“I’m not entirely sure, myself. A sense of dread, perhaps, or pressure.”

Her gaze swam out of focus as she considered the question. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “I mean, the blood and the missing crew were definitely creepy, but it didn’t feel...” She grimaced, waving one hand vaguely in the air. “God, ‘supernatural’ just sounds dumb these days.”

“I’m sure,” LaCroix rejoined dryly. “Never mind. Go, see to Grout. Remember – we must hear from him before you may return.” She nodded and turned away. He watched her leave, brow creased in thought.

When the door closed quietly behind her he lowered his gaze to the paperwork she’d retrieved, flicking open the folder and fanning out the pages. The fledgling’s continued survival was...well, a statistical anomaly, certainly. And something it would probably be unwise to depend on long-term. But he’d been sincere when he’d praised her efforts – there were few within the Camarilla who could have accomplished what she had in so short a time.

He wasn’t blind to the tenuousness of his position. While many kindred paid him lip service, there were precious few he could count as true allies. A promising young fledgling, spared by his hand and working to strengthen the Camarilla on his orders, was a sorely needed mark in his favor. He would be remiss not to make full use of her abilities while her luck continued to hold.

And hopefully it would hold a little longer. He sank into his chair, rifling through one of his drawers in search of the burner phone he’d have no use for after this night. The message he sent was simple.

> The witness is en route. I trust they will see what is needed.

He neither expected nor waited for a response – attention already shifting to the documents from the _Elizabeth Dane_, he crushed the phone in his hand and held its remains out for the sheriff. “Dispose of that,” he said, not bothering to glance up when the Nagloper took it from him. There was nothing to do now but wait for the childe to return with her testimony; he may as well fill the time by studying what had taken place aboard the blasted ship.

The police report was not the straightforward renunciation of supernatural causes he’d hoped it’d be. The human authorities seemed to share the fledgling’s assessment: the _Elizabeth Dane’s_ crew had been slaughtered, by a person or persons unknown. Photographs from the scene captured in stark, unrelenting detail the blood-splashed decks, the cargo container that appeared to have been ripped open...the bloody handprints along the side and lid of the Ankaran Sarcophagus.

His Beast grumbled beneath his skin. Vaguely perturbed, he set the police report aside and scanned through the ship’s cargo manifest.

There was a discrepancy. He frowned, flipping back through the police report to be sure. A small, unmarked box was listed among the items being shipped from the archaeological dig site alongside the sarcophagus, but was not included in the list of items secured at the scene.

He rubbed irritably at his forehead. The evidence was contradictory. The missing crew and physical clues all pointed to..._something_ emerging from the Ankaran Sarcophagus and slaughtering the crew to a man before – what? Escaping into the open ocean? Sealing itself within the sarcophagus once more? A disappearing box from the same dig hardly fit into that scenario. Knowledge of the sarcophagus and the details of its discovery had been wide-spread in the city – could some enterprising kindred have found a way aboard the ship before it was towed into port? Assuming they had taken such a risk, why waste the effort to steal such an odd item, seemingly unrelated to the artifact that held the city in its thrall?

Unless they were in a position to hazard a guess at what the box might have contained. Sebastian’s jaw flexed as he reached for his phone, dialing Tung’s number.

“Hey, boss. What can I do for you tonight?”

“Do you have eyes on Beckett yet?”

“Knox tracked him to one of those roach motels off the freeway, but he didn’t spend the day there. The kid sat on it until nightfall to be sure. But I’ve put the word out you’re looking for him – shouldn’t be too long before he finds his way to you.”

Disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. “I see. And the _Elizabeth Dane_?”

“Still a crime scene, boss,” Tung said. “Nothing moves until the kine are finished with it.”

His free hand tightened into a fist. “Very well. Let me know the instant they release it.”

“Of course.”

Sebastian disconnected the call, molars grinding. He had a surfeit of questions with no answers immediately forthcoming, his only assets the faltering authority of a Camarilla title in an Anarch-controlled city, his sheriff, and a fledgling less than a week old whose chance of continued survival was laughably slim; he was growing tired of the sensation he was simply trying to anticipate the next disaster, subject to the capricious whims of a city that was supposed to be his.


	8. Chapter 8

Madison dashed through the corridors of Grout’s mansion, the blood-curdling screams of the primogen’s unfortunate test subjects ringing in her ears. The heat was unbearable; if she’d still needed to breathe, the smoke filling the halls would surely have choked her into unconsciousness by now. She was beginning to lose her sense of direction, turned around as she was by all the hallways that had become raging infernos. How had the fire spread so quickly?

Her Beast rampaged within her, its panicked cries rattling her skull, drowning out the greedy crackling of the flames. She skidded to a halt as the doorway she was tearing toward disappeared behind an avalanche of flaming ceiling beams and debris. The fire sprang toward her with a hungry roar; she backed away with a whimper. She spun to go back the way she’d come, but drew up short at the sight of the flames licking along the ceiling at the far end of the hallway.

“Shit, shit, _shit_.”

She spun in place, desperately searching for another way out. There was nothing. She ran to the window, quailing a little inside at the sight of the ground three floors below her. Not human anymore, she reminded herself with a touch of hysteria. Her fists made short work of the panes, the lacerations already healing as she hauled herself into the frame.

Her Beast screamed, the imperative pounding through her entire being: _**Jump**_.

The instinct was too overwhelming to override; she flung herself from the window. She misjudged her trajectory in her panic, crashing into the roof of the mansion’s stately porch with a yelp of pain, fingers scrambling uselessly at the tiles as she tumbled head over heels off the edge and came to rest in a graceless heap on the front lawn. She immediately clambered up onto her hands and knees, crawling toward the edge of the property until she could no longer feel the heat from the fire scorching her skin.

She flopped onto the grass, hugging the earth and panting, great gasping breaths she was too stupefied to remember she didn’t have to take as she waited for the red haze to recede from her vision.

Distant sirens jolted her back up and into motion. She staggered toward the street, grateful beyond words to find her cab still waiting for her. The driver turned his hidden gaze on her as she threw herself into the back seat. “Drive,” she managed, curling on her side as he nodded and pulled away from the curb.

She stared blindly at the back of his seat as they drove, the drying blood-sweat on her skin smearing against the pleather-covered car seat beneath her. Her Beast was raging beneath her skin, its fury talons that kept tearing at her mind. It pushed at her from inside: she was so tired already – all she had to do was close her eyes and It would take control, let her rest while It kept them safe –

She bit into the meat of her palm, snarling at the pain. She was not going to frenzy.

“Where to?” the driver asked, his voice like a rush of cold water over the inferno of her thoughts.

She grasped desperately at the distraction, concentrating on the question as she pulled herself upright. She knew she should head straight to Venture Tower – the death of a primogen and the presence of a kine hellbent on his own Final Death was something LaCroix would definitely want to know about – but she was drained from her half-frenzied flight from the mansion. One arm and the better part of the opposite hand were covered in weeping burns that wouldn’t heal no matter how much blood she willed to the injuries, and it took near-constant vigilance to keep the Beast caged.

She could feel the cabbie’s gaze on her as the strange kindred patiently awaited her response. “Trip’s Pawnshop, Santa Monica,” she told him, letting her head loll back against the headrest. For once, she hoped Heather had ignored her urging and would be at their ramshackle apartment – she desperately needed to feed.

They traversed the city in silence, the passing streetlights painting fantastical images across her closed eyelids.

“We’re here,” the driver prompted roughly thirty minutes later, turning in his seat far enough to pin her reflection in the darkened lenses of his sunglasses.

She nodded, fingers digging into the seat beneath her as the world tilted with the motion. “Wait for me?”

“If you wish.”

“Thanks.”

She made sure there were no pedestrians nearby before she exited the taxi, stumbling like a drunk toward the side door that led up to her apartment. Red pulsed at the edges of her vision; the world narrowed to the stairs beneath her feet, the peeling paint of the apartment door, and the warm blood behind it. Heather jumped up from the broken-down armchair, rushing toward her with a distressed cry, and Madison fell away.

_It locked Its jaws around the fragile throat, bearing Its vessel and Its prey to the floor in one brutal motion. Warm vitae flowed down Its gullet and pooled in Its belly, and It growled Its pleasure as the tearing hunger finally began to abate._

She twitched fitfully in her sleep.

_The creature beneath It moaned, a thin, feeble sound. It snarled back, blood bubbling in the corners of Its mouth, before It bit down harder, silencing the disturbance. The fragile shell It wore was Its only means of existence – It would not be dissuaded from keeping it alive by the whimpers of a dying shadow._

She was...nowhere. There was no up, no down, no horizon – no sense of where in directional space she drifted, just an endless, permeating fog. She thought she should feel chilled where it touched her skin, but she felt nothing. When she tried to concentrate on the lack of physical sensation, her mind slid away, into empty forgetfulness.

_The creature’s hand kept spasming in the corner of Its vision – open and closed, open and closed. It found it distracting; reaching out Its own hand, It crushed the creature’s wrist and the movement ceased._

The sound of bones snapping echoed distantly, and even through the heavy fog of nothing she drifted in, a part of her recoiled, horrified at the needless cruelty. This wasn’t necessary to her survival.

_The rush of blood pumping into Its mouth began to slow, and Its chest rumbled with Its dissatisfaction. Its hunger wasn’t even half-sated – It would have to seek other prey once this creature was spent._

A faltering heartbeat. _“Whoa, kid – ease up.”_ No. This wasn’t necessary. She didn’t need to kill to feed. She couldn’t remember who’d taught her that, but she remembered enough of herself to start clawing her way out of the nothing.

_It lifted Its head, snarling at empty air as It felt Her consciousness stir. **Sleep**, It commanded, trying to push Her back down. **I will protect us.**_

I don’t want that kind of protection, she threw back, gaining enough control to peer out at the world as if from underwater.

“Excuse me.”

Madison quailed as the Beast turned their gaze on the cab driver. She tried to scream a warning, but it emerged as a wordless snarl as It launched their body at him. The kindred didn’t even flinch – he caught their wrist with ease, turning their talons away from him and pressing the fingers of his free hand to their forehead. Immediately, Madison slumped to her knees, the Beast complacent within her.

“Just wanted to remind you the meter’s still running,” the driver informed her, releasing her wrist before he turned and left the room.

Madison didn’t have time to wonder – the sound of wet, struggling breaths dragged her attention immediately toward Heather. Her ghoul was lying on the floor, her throat ripped half-open and blood still oozing in a macabre halo around her head.

“Oh, my God – Heather!”

Madison scrambled to her side, bending her face frantically to her neck to close her torn flesh. Heather’s gaze was glassy, her skin like wax; Madison bit into her own wrist, pressing the wound to the ghoul’s mouth. Her blood slid past the young woman’s unresponsive lips for a few agonizing seconds before Heather swallowed, reaching up a feeble hand to try and press her regnant’s wrist more firmly against her mouth. Madison deflated, murmuring apologies and reassurances against the woman’s temple as she pet her hair, doing her best to ignore the blood quickly growing tacky between the strands.

Some of Heather’s color began to return as she continued to suckle at Madison’s wrist, and Madison allowed her to swallow more of her vitae than she probably should have before she pulled her arm away. “I’m sorry,” she said, gently pushing Heather back when she reached for the open wound with a wordless noise of complaint.

“You saved me again,” Heather said, eyes fixed on Madison’s wrist until the flow of blood stopped.

Madison cringed. “No, Heather, I – ”

“Thank you!” she cried, throwing her arms around Madison’s shoulders and hugging her tightly.

Madison shrank in on herself, not having the heart to push her away, guilt and self-loathing twin stones lodged in her throat and blocking her voice.

-

_“Ce que le diable – ?”_

Any other night Madison might’ve been amused to find LaCroix wasn’t as unflappable as he normally appeared, his undisguised shock at her appearance plain on his face. As it was, she concentrated on remaining upright as he strode toward her across the highly-polished floor of his office. He took her hands gingerly in his, gaze intense as he studied the burns that still refused to heal along her skin. His expression was unreadable by the time he finished his perusal, the momentary lapse in control forgotten like it had never existed. “Come – sit.” He led her to one of the richly-upholstered couches, pouring a liberal glass of blood from the bottle his sheriff produced from an unseen source. “What happened?” he demanded as he pressed the glass into her hands. Madison only meant to take a sip, but as soon as the blood passed her lips she guzzled the whole thing down. She expected admonishment, but LaCroix only refilled the glass with a hint of impatience.

“Grout’s dead.” Her voice sounded flat in her own ears.

“_Dead_? How – ?”

“There was a hunter,” she said, too exhausted and numb to worry about interrupting him. “He tried to burn the mansion down – with me in it. He says he’s coming for you, by the way. Something about cleansing your black soul.”

LaCroix’s expression hardened. “This hunter – I don’t suppose his name was Bach?”

“Yeah. Friend of yours?” she asked, throwing back her second glass.

“Hardly,” he said, words clipped as he poured her another. “He’s a member of the Society of Leopold – kine who stalk and kill our kind to appease their ‘God.’ Just when I think he’s finally lost the scent...” He trailed off, raising a hand to rub wearily at his temples. “So, Bach killed Grout to draw me out.”

“Mm.” Madison considered the statement as she finally managed to sip at the contents of her glass. “No, I don’t think so. He was surprised to learn Grout was dead when I ran into him – right before he set everything on fire.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.” LaCroix poured himself a glass, handing the bottle back to the sheriff when he saw she wasn’t in immediate need of a refill. “If not Bach, who else could have killed Grout?”he asked, swirling the blood distractedly in his glass. His gaze sharpened when she hesitated. “Miss Langford?”

She fidgeted. “I did see...someone else,” she hedged. “But they were...strange.”

She could feel his eyes boring into the crown of her head. “This is not the time for games, fledgling.” He set his glass aside when she didn’t respond. “Look at me, Madison.” His eyes were fever-bright when she chanced a look at his face. “Who did you see?”

“Nines,” she said, the name slipping out before she could stop herself.

LaCroix took a deep breath, searching her face intently. “Are you _sure_?” he pressed. “Because if it truly was Mr. Rodriguez, the consequences… Do you know where this might lead? Do you really have any idea?”

Her expression grew mulish. “Just because he was there doesn’t mean he killed Grout.”

“You’ve already confirmed Bach denied responsibility for the act.”

“But – !”

“Don’t worry, Miss Langford – I’m not going to call a Blood Hunt on the Anarch. Not...immediately, at any rate.” He sat back with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need to confer with the primogen – your testimony may be required.”

“What _testimony_?” she demanded. “For all we know, he was out for a midnight stroll!”

The look he pinned her with let her know exactly what he thought of that scenario. “Would it alter your opinion any if I told you Mr. Rodriguez – and many in the Anarch community – view the Camarilla as an invading force on par with the Kuei-Jin?” He shook his head with a scoff, picking up his glass and taking a deep swallow. “They believe they are at war, and what better way to weaken and throw your enemy into confusion than to eliminate their leaders? It’s a tactic older than you or I.”

“Then why start with Grout?”

He paused in the act of sitting forward. “I’m sorry?”

“Why start with Grout?” she repeated. “Why not come after you directly?”

The corner of his lip curled in amusement. “Aside from the fact that this tower is heavily fortified and they are rightfully afraid of my sheriff?” Her gaze skipped to the massive kindred standing silent and stalwart behind them. LaCroix’s momentary humor bled away. “Grout lived on the edge of Anarch territory, far from Camarilla protection,” he said, rising to his feet and plucking the glass from her hand. “It was his choice and his right, but it made him an easy target.”

She watched him thoughtfully as he strode to his desk. “Do you want a war with the Anarchs?”

His tone was cool. “If I’d wanted a war with the Anarchs, Miss Langford, I’d have started one when I first arrived in L.A.” He set both glasses aside, resting his fingers against the handle of an ornate letter opener before he seemed to shake away some intrusive thought and turned back to her. “I trust you have enough blood at your safe house to lay low for the remainder of the night?”

Madison blinked at him. “You’re giving me the rest of the night off?”

“The _Elizabeth Dane_ is still a sealed crime scene – we can do nothing until they release the Ankaran Sarcophagus for transport,” he said, a hint of frustration bleeding through the words. “And you are injured,” he added, as if just remembering he should acknowledge the fact. He cocked his head, eyes narrowing as he regarded her speculatively. “To survive an encounter with the likes of Bach – you have the Devil’s own luck, childe.”

She smiled thinly. “Doesn’t feel much like luck,” she said, brandishing her burned arm.

He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “It will heal, in time. If there was nothing else…?”

She smoothed her hands over her soot-smudged jeans before she stood. “If I could – ?”

“Yes?” he sighed, making no effort to mask his impatience.

“I don’t believe Nines killed Grout. It just doesn’t...feel right.”

He regarded her silently, expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. “You are welcome to share your reservations with the primogen.”

She tried not to let her shoulders slump. “Right. Thank you. Good night, sir.”

“Good evening, fledgling.”

She felt like she could feel his gaze on the back of her neck all the way down to the lobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak French and am relying on auto-translation software, which is not always accurate. According to the sites I checked, _"Ce que le diable?"_ = "What the devil?" If anyone actually speaks French and knows better, please feel free to correct me. :)


	9. Chapter 9

LaCroix stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the lights of the city. The question of what to do with the fledgling weighed heavily on his mind. He still had need of her – her testimony placing Nines at Grout’s mansion would be vital if he had any hope of persuading the primogen to call a Blood Hunt on the Anarch, and there was no one else he trusted enough to send after the Ankaran Sarcophagus once it was finally released by the kine authorities. Ghouls, useful as they were, had their limitations, and with tensions so high he was loathe to send his sheriff. Once the sarcophagus was his, however…

He focused on the ghostly reflection of the Laibon, standing at silent attention behind him. He hadn’t been the one to Embrace the childe; she wasn’t bound to him in any way. Could he afford to allow himself to depend on someone who could still make the decision to betray him? He’d been tempted earlier, after learning she’d survived Bach, to slice open his palm and feed her just enough of his vitae to dull any thoughts of rebellion in her mind. Only the thought that it might in some way hinder her baffling ability to continue to survive in the face of impossible odds had stopped him.

He stifled a sigh. Damn Liam – a beheading had been too merciful a punishment for the man.

He met the sheriff’s gaze in the glass. “I don’t suppose we’ve made any progress in finding where these Sabbat raids are coming from?”

The massive kindred inclined his head. “We have cleared many warrens, but they are like vermin – the moment one lair is compromised, they scatter and run to another.”

“I didn’t ask for your excuses,” he snapped. He ground his teeth when the sheriff only lowered his gaze contritely. “This is farcical,” he muttered, turning from the window. “Perhaps I should send the fledgling in your stead – _she_ at least seems able to produce results.” He didn’t expect the larger vampire to rise to the bait, and he wasn’t disappointed – the Nagloper only stood, head bowed in subservience. Sebastian grimaced. He’d twisted the kindred to his will over a century ago; he could hardly hold the deference he’d forced upon him against him now. “Never mind,” he said, brushing past him to sit at his desk. “They will run out of bolt holes eventually.”

The sheriff said nothing, only moved to stand at his shoulder once more.

Sebastian’s phone rang before he could do more than take his seat, and he had a brief but intense impulse to turn and hurl the blasted thing through the window he’d just been standing at. “Yes?” he said, managing to keep the irritation out of his voice. Just.

“I – Prince LaCroix?” The fledgling’s voice was high-pitched and watery; she sounded on the verge of tears.

He straightened in his seat. “Miss Langford? What – ?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call,” she said, the words running together in a panicked ramble. “There’s a man locked in my bathroom, I don’t know what to _do_ – ”

“What man? A kine?”

“Please, I don’t want to have to kill him – ”

A sick, sinking sensation opened in the pit of his withered stomach. “I’m on my way. Do not let him leave.” He hung up without waiting for an answer, standing and turning to the sheriff. “I’m going to Santa Monica. There is a situation that requires my attention. Have Cunningham press our contacts outside Hollywood again, and check with the operatives we have watching Chinatown – the Kuei-Jin have been suspiciously quiet these last few nights.”

The sheriff nodded, helping him into his overcoat with a finesse that still surprised him after all these years. He trailed LaCroix out of the office, breaking away to follow his orders as Sebastian waited for the elevator. The Ventrue sent a message for one of the company drivers to bring a car around to the front of the building, slipping the phone into his pocket as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The ride down to the lobby seemed excruciatingly slow.

“Oh! Mr. LaCroix – wasn’t expecting to see you tonight, sir.”

Sebastian shot a tight-lipped smile at the kine seated behind the security desk. “Likewise, Officer…?”

“Chunk, sir.” LaCroix managed not to roll his eyes. “Uh, anything I can do for you, sir?”

“Keep up the good work,” he threw over his shoulder, striding toward the doors.

Officer Chunk beamed. “Yessir! Why, this building’s safer than a – ”

Sebastian let the door fall closed behind him, sparing himself the rest of the simile. A black town car idled at the curb, and the driver jumped to hold the door for him. “Thank you,” Sebastian said, locking eyes with the man. “You will disable the GPS tracker before we depart.” 

The chauffeur smiled and nodded, making sure Sebastian was seated comfortably before he closed the door and circled the vehicle to take his place behind the wheel. He turned off the GPS device wired to the dashboard before meeting Sebastian’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Where to, sir?” LaCroix gave him the address of the safe house, silently grateful when the man made no attempt at small talk, only nodded and pulled away from the curb.

“Wait here,” Sebastian instructed once they arrived, not waiting for the driver to hold the door for him. He almost brushed past the nervous kine that approached him, his gaze fixed on the building’s side door, but the scent of the fledgling’s blood coursing through the woman’s veins caused him to pull up short. He glanced at her sharply, reassessing.

She fidgeted under his glare. “Um, are you – ?”

“Quiet,” Sebastian snapped. “I’d venture you have done more than enough this evening.” The woman’s features smoothed into pleasant placidity, and she followed meekly behind as he stalked up the stairs.

The fledgling had braced the bathroom door with a battered armchair, which she was currently slouched against. She rose slowly to her feet when he entered the room, hope and naked terror warring openly across her face.

“Miss Langford,” he said, voice threaded with steel, “would you care to explain why you have dragged me away from my office?” Her anxious glance at the woman she’d ghouled confirmed his suspicions, but he only lifted his chin, allowing his Presence to fill the room as he waited for her response.

“Hey, is someone out there?” A series of hammering blows sounded from the other side of the bathroom door. “Call the cops, man – that psycho bitch’s got me trapped in here!”

The childe’s mouth dropped open, but she only managed a strangled, “I–I...”

“I suggest you let him out before one of the neighbors decides to act on his suggestion, fledgling.”

She flinched but hurried to obey, dragging the chair away from the door and untying the bed-sheet she’d secured to the door handle. Almost immediately, a young kine yanked the door open. “What the hell, man? What’s your fucking probl – ” He drew up short when he noticed Sebastian standing in the middle of the room. “Who the fuck’re you?”

“Someone who’s heard quite enough,” Sebastian said, silencing him with a gesture. He turned to glare at the fledgling. “Explain. Now.”

“It’s my fault,” she said. She trembled slightly, but her voice was strong, expression defiant as she visibly made herself hold his gaze. “I frenzied earlier – Heather was just trying to take care of me – ”

“What possessed you to create a ghoul?” he broke in, lip curling.

She faltered, vulnerability creeping into her gaze. “I didn’t mean to. She was dying, and I’d heard kindred blood could heal kine… I didn’t know it would make her like – ” She swallowed. “It’s my fault,” she repeated, expression hardening as she glanced toward her ghoul, still standing placidly behind LaCroix.

Sebastian ground his molars. It seemed every situation these nights was determined to spiral into a crisis. Ignoring the fledgling and her ghoul for the moment, he turned his attention on the human who’d been idiotic enough to allow himself to be lured into this mess. “I need you to listen to me very closely,” he said, tilting the man’s face up to meet his eyes. His blood sang as he worked his will into the kine’s pliable mind. “You were lured here with the promise of sexual gratification, but once you arrived you were tricked and locked in the bathroom while the woman stole the cash out of your wallet and disappeared. By the time you freed yourself there was no chance of finding her. After all’s said and done, you are far too embarrassed to report this incident or attempt to track down the perpetrator.”

“Stupid bitch,” the man muttered. “Can’t tell the guys – they’d never let me live it down.”

“You’re going to return to your domicile and drink yourself into a stupor in an attempt to forget this ever happened,” LaCroix finished, drawing his hand back from the kine’s jaw. “After which you will forget every identifying detail about the woman or this location.” The man nodded, then turned on his heel and exited the apartment. They listened to his footsteps recede down the uncarpeted stairs before the fledgling took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she started, cutting herself short and quailing at the scorching glare he turned on her.

“Be. Silent,” he seethed. “You risked both the Masquerade and the anonymity of this safe house. Was your sire’s execution not example enough of how important these matters are?”

“I’m sorry,” she cried, cowering away from him.

“_Sorry_ does not keep us safe, fledgling,” he snapped. He turned his glare on her ghoul. “I fear I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“No,” she said, scrambling around him to insert herself bodily between the two of them. The thought of her attempting to stand against him might have been amusing if he weren’t so incensed.

“She violated the Masquerade.”

“To protect me,” she protested, a note of pleading entering her voice.

“Her reasons are irrelevant. The hunters her actions could have drawn wouldn’t have cared. Our laws are clear.”

“Then the law’s bullshit!” She took a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists. “I made her, so she’s my responsibility, right? So punish me.”

He stepped forward, narrowing his eyes when she set her jaw and tilted her head back to hold his gaze. “I am.”

She blinked, brows drawing together in a confused frown before her eyes grew wide. “No.”

“As you said, she’s your responsibility.” He stepped back so he was no longer crowding her, clasping his hands behind his back. “This is your mess to clean up.”

“No,” she said again, but there was no strength in her voice. She just looked...crestfallen. And lost. And very young.

_The sharp crack of his sire’s hand against his cheek, the sting of torn flesh and the slick sheen of blood on the man’s heavy signet ring. “Nettoyez votre gâchis.”_ Sebastian squared his shoulders. “Madison.”

She flinched. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I don’t want to,” she said, voice small.

“What we want seldom has anything to do with reality.” His voice hardened when she still didn’t move. “I won’t tell you again, Miss Langford.”

“My Humanity – ”

“Will recover,” he cut in with cold finality.

She deflated. Eyes swimming with reddened tears, she turned to face her ghoul. Her hands trembled as she settled them atop the woman’s shoulders; then she hesitated. Sebastian grit his teeth. This was not how he would have chosen to test the limits of her obedience, but he refused to Dominate her in this – he had no use for a childe that refused to carry out orders.

The silence stretched. Finally, she sniffled and glanced back at him. “Can you...make sure she doesn’t feel any pain?”

The knots in his shoulders began to unclench. “She is bound to you by blood. Your Kiss will be more than enough – ”

“Please,” she said, gaze lowered to track across the filthy floor. “I’ve never...killed someone like this before. I don’t want her to suffer.”

She flinched when his fingers grazed her skin, then held herself carefully still as he slid them beneath her chin and lifted her face. A dizzying array of emotions burned in her gaze – rage, fear, guilt, remorse – but she didn’t try to jerk out of his hold. He felt an unexpected surge of pride. This wouldn’t break her. She would hate him for it, perhaps for decades, but that was of no consequence. She startled when he swept his thumb along her jaw. “Very well.”

She did jerk away from him then. He let her go, reaching past her to draw the attention of her ghoul. “You will look only at me. Do you understand?” The woman nodded and smiled. The fledgling stifled a sob before she slid a hand up to the kine’s neck, holding her in place as she bit down. Sebastian watched the ghoul’s eyes dilate, expression euphoric as her regnant fed. He held her gaze, alert for any hint of discomfort, but her blissful demeanor never wavered, even as the light faded from her eyes.

Finally, the fledgling lowered the body gently to the floor. He waited, but she only remained crouched next to the corpse, arms wrapped around her knees and face hidden. He suppressed a sigh. “Madison.”

“What?” Her voice was dull, lifeless.

“Dawn is less than an hour away.”

“You should go, then.”

He leaned down to grasp her shoulder. “You did well, childe. Now come – I won’t let you spend the day here.”

She tensed beneath his hand, muscles drawn taut to the point of trembling, but she didn’t resist as he drew her to her feet and led her from the apartment. His driver jumped to hold the door for them; she slid across to the far side of the car, curling into a tight ball against the door. Sebastian let her be, settling back in his seat as he gave the chauffeur the address of the nearest acceptable safe house. If the fledgling recognized it, she gave no sign.

The drive was silent save for the occasional muffled, weepy hiccup from her side of the car.

LaCroix withdrew a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it out to her as the car pulled up to the curb once again. She glanced at it blearily before she turned her face away, straightening in her seat and wiping her face on her jacket sleeves. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket without comment, allowing her her moment of youthful petulance.

His door clicked open and he stepped out onto the sidewalk, turning to the chauffeur with a pleasant smile. “You won’t remember anything about the locations we have visited tonight, or the woman,” he said, holding the man’s gaze as he slipped a tip into his hand. “You will feel only a faint resentment at my wasting your time driving me around the city in the small hours of the morning.”

The driver’s smile stiffened into the practiced affability of a man used to dealing with the rich and entitled as the fledgling exited the vehicle. “Of course, sir. Have a pleasant day.”

LaCroix nodded, glancing over at the childe. She was regarding the building with an inscrutable expression, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped protectively around herself. She shied away when he reached for her shoulder, and he pressed his lips into a thin line as he drew his hand back. “Come.” She trailed behind him silently, face averted to try and hide how often she wiped at her eyes.

If Mercurio was surprised to find them on his doorstep, the ghoul hid it well. “Morning, boss. Little late for you to be visiting this part of town – everything all right?”

“I need the key for the penthouse.”

Mercurio nodded, leaving the door standing open as he briefly disappeared around the corner. “Anything else?” he asked as he re-appeared in the doorway, handing the key over.

“The safe house above the pawn shop needs to be cleaned out. Be thorough – we will not be using it again for the foreseeable future.”

The ghoul’s gaze flicked toward the childe for the first time, but she had resumed staring at the floor. “I’ll take care of it.”

LaCroix inclined his head. The vitae he’d spent fixing the fledgling’s mess was beginning to make itself known, the approaching dawn only draining him further. “Check that the Skyeline property is ready for immediate residency,” he instructed, resisting the urge to rub a hand tiredly over his eyes. “And I’ve received some troubling reports regarding kine falling ill in large numbers – coordinate with Tung and make some discreet inquiries with the local hospitals. I’ll expect a full report first thing this evening.”

Mercurio withdrew his phone from his pocket, fingers flying across the keypad as he bobbed his head unconsciously in time with LaCroix’s words. He glanced up to ensure he was finished speaking before he gave one final nod. “You got it.” He hesitated, eyeing the Ventrue’s expression as he returned the phone to his back pocket. “Sinclair should be up by now,” he said. “You want me to send him up?” The frown creasing Sebastian’s brow eased slightly as he nodded, and the corner of his ghoul’s mouth curved in a deeply satisfied smile. “Just Sinclair, or…?” Mercurio glanced toward the childe again, and Sebastian shook his head.

“Just Sinclair for the moment.” The fledgling wouldn’t be hungry again for hours; there was no point in dragging another of his herd across town in the early hours of the morning. “Bring two from the tower with you this evening.”

“All right.” Mercurio waited another second to be sure no further instructions were forthcoming before he flashed them a grin. “You guys have a good day’s sleep. I’ll see you tonight, boss.” Then he turned away, closing the door behind him.

Which left them alone in the hallway, the fledgling still pointedly not looking at him. He briefly closed his eyes, marshaling for a few final shreds of patience. “Miss Langford.” She twitched and tilted her head to regard him from the corner of her eye. “I won’t indulge this petulant behavior of yours much longer. Now come,” he said, turning toward the elevators at the end of the hall. “Before the sun rises.” She was slow to follow, but he refused to look back; finally, as the elevator opened with a soft _ding_, he heard her footsteps trailing disconsolately after him. She slipped into the cab just before the doors slid shut, skirting the railing and keeping her eyes on the floor.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” she asked, voice barely audible as the cab began to move.

Sebastian glanced at her in surprise. “Why should I have wanted to do that?”

“I violated the Masquerade.”

“Your ghoul violated the Masquerade,” he corrected. “And you were punished for it.”

“But Liam – ”

“There is a world of difference between creating a ghoul and Embracing a childe,” he cut in irritably. He ran a hand over his brow. “These are extraordinary nights, fledgling, and your education has not been what it should. I take responsibility for my part in that failing, but believe me when I say you will look back someday and understand that what took place tonight was necessary.”

She didn’t reply, only shrank a little further into herself as they continued their ascent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Nettoyez votre gâchis.”_ = "Clean up your mess." Again, corrections welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

Madison woke in a room that probably cost more than she’d earned in her entire life. Just a week ago, she would’ve happily traded a year’s salary for a chance to spend the night in accommodations even half as luxurious, blackout curtains notwithstanding. Now, she barely took in the expensive furnishings and tasteful artwork, kicking the finely-embroidered duvet away without sparing it a second glance. She curled against the headboard, burying her face in her knees. Her hair irritated the healing burns where it fell across her arm, but she didn’t move to brush it away.

Heather’s dead eyes had haunted her dreams. They were never accusing – she almost wished they had been, but she’d stolen that luxury from the young woman when she’d fed her her blood. She shuddered, nausea churning through her gut. She must’ve done something wrong – Mercurio and Knox were both ghouls, but neither of them were even half as slavishly devoted to their regnants as Heather had been to her. Did a kindred’s age affect how much free will their ghoul retained?

_“...education has not been what it should...”_

She thumped her head against her knees, fighting the sting of tears. Who was supposed to be teaching her? When was she expected to have time to learn? She’d been running around doing someone else’s bidding from practically the moment she’d opened her eyes on the theater stage.

She took a deep breath, swallowing the frustration and the fear and the guilt and packing it down tight. Then she straightened her spine, combing her hair out of her face with her fingers before she slid off the bed, trying to remember where the bathroom was located. She had no idea where LaCroix was, but she doubted he’d leave her to her own devices for long – she at least wanted to get a shower in before she had to face him again.

Her door opened into a short hall, currently empty. There were two other doors, one directly across from hers and one at the end of the hall. She eyed them doubtfully. Her memory of the night before was obscured by a numbing fog – she’d been too busy trying to figure out how quickly it would take LaCroix to destroy her if she attacked him or if a fall from this floor would be enough to kill her to pay attention to the bare-bones tour he’d provided.

The towering form of the sheriff appeared at the head of the hall. Madison froze when the kindred’s red gaze fell on her, tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth and throat dry. LaCroix could make all the promises he liked regarding his enforcer, but she was alone and the behemoth was eating up the distance between them with frighteningly long strides. She shrank back against the door, battling the urge to bare her fangs.

The sheriff swept past her with a small, deferential nod.

Madison’s lips skinned back from her teeth in a confused grimace as the massive kindred disappeared through the door at the end of the hall. Her adrenaline surged, still feeling strangely incomplete unaccompanied by a pounding pulse, but there was nothing to spend it on. She blew out a shuddering breath, joints aching and skin feeling stretched too thin over her bones.

At least she knew which door led to the bathroom.

Aggressively clean marbled tile, edged with gold filigree, lay cold and impersonal beneath her bloodless hands. The dark pits of her eyes stared back at her from the spotless mirror.

_“Can someone call my grandma? Please?”_

Don’t think about it.

She stripped out of her clothes mechanically, shoving them into a neat pile next to the sink. She turned the hot water on full, stepping into a scalding spray that would’ve sent her fleeing with reddened skin a few days ago. She missed feeling warm. When the water lost all vestiges of heat she shut it off, toweling herself dry with detached, clinical movements. She pulled the clothes she’d slept in back on – something else for the prince to scowl about – and exited the bathroom.

Voices – well, _a_ voice – drew her toward the spacious sitting room. LaCroix was pacing before the large picture windows, cell phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear and a bound sheaf of papers open in his hands. He didn’t shout, but his tone was decidedly displeased. “– am wondering why those reports didn’t cross my desk until the CDC was ready to descend on Los Angeles.” His gaze swept across her, but he only frowned and pointed at the couch. She wanted to scream; she wanted to cry; she wanted to break his face; instead, she sat, head bowed so she at least didn’t have to look at him for a while longer. The prince continued to pace. “Is no one in this city concerned with upholding the Masquerade?”

She flinched, gaze resting on the hands curled uselessly in her lap. For lack of anything else to do, and to help shut out his voice, she turned a critical eye on her burns. They were far from healed, but they looked weeks old rather than hours. She flexed her hand experimentally. She wasn’t able to close it into a fist or fully extend her fingers, the skin pulling until she winced in pain. Hopefully she wouldn’t be expected to engage in any bare-knuckle fistfights in the immediate future.

“See that you do,” LaCroix snapped, disconnecting his call. He pivoted, smacking the ream of papers against the coffee table and making her jump. “Incompetence, insolence, and disrespect in equal measure,” he fumed, posture painfully straight. “Such are the tools with which I am expected to conquer a city.” He took a deep breath, visibly reigning in his irritation before he turned his attention on her.

He frowned at her rumpled clothing and the damp ends of her hair curling against her ears. “Miss Langford. I trust you slept well.” He took a seat in the adjacent armchair as if this were just another meeting, as if he hadn’t ordered her to kill an innocent woman the night before. He didn’t wait for her to respond. “I’m afraid we must turn straight to business tonight. I’ll be brief: due to a criminal lack of talent and foresight within this organization, a plaguebearer has been allowed to take up residence somewhere downtown.”

He paused, clearly expecting her to respond. She had to swallow twice before she could get the words out. “What’s a plaguebearer?”

He appeared pleased by the question. “A plaguebearer is a carrier of disease, analogous to the vermin that carried the Black Death. While a kindred cannot fall ill, the mortals he feeds from can. If a kindred is reckless enough to feed from sickened kine, he can spread disease among the human populace at an alarming rate.”

“You mentioned the CDC,” she remembered.

“Yes,” he said, mouth compressing into a grim line. “I didn’t misspeak when I decried the abilities of the sycophants that crowd my tower. This plaguebearer has been allowed to operate unchecked for so long that an epidemic has been declared – the CDC are setting up triage centers as we speak. I’m sure I don’t have to impress upon you the danger to the Masquerade this situation presents.”

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, stomach tightening in anticipation of his answer.

“The plaguebearer must be found and eliminated,” he said, leaning back to cross an ankle over his knee. “Primogen Strauss is taking the entire thing quite personally – meet with him and see if he’s able to provide you with any promising leads. Though perhaps not,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly, “before visiting your new haven for a fresh change of clothes.”

She was going to be sick; she was going to rip out his eye teeth. “New haven?”

“The apartment above the pawnshop was never meant to be a permanent residence; you will not be returning there.” He pressed an imaginary wrinkle from his pants leg. “Mercurio has taken the liberty of moving your belongings to a more suitable location. He’s waiting downstairs to drive you to your new accommodations.”

The words had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, up her throat. “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded, leaning forward and picking up the ream of papers from the coffee table. “Forgive me for not offering earlier – if you’re hungry, there’s a kine in the front hall you may feed on,” he informed her, tapping the pages smartly against the wood.

Her insides squirmed. “No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good evening,” he said, rising to his feet and fishing his phone from his pocket. “Be sure to conduct yourself properly when you speak with Strauss.”

She only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

-

She found Mercurio loitering at the bottom of the building’s steps, smoking a cigarette. The ghoul crushed the butt against the sole of his shoe when he spied her, blowing out a final stream of smoke. “Hey, doll. Ready to go?”

Her stomach was cramping in sick knots, but she managed an admirably indifferent, “Sure.”

His grin was strained, but it was there. He led her to an anonymous blue coupe sitting at the curb; she had to stamp down on the sudden, irrational urge to start crying when he held the passenger-side door for her. She sank into the seat, propping her feet against the dashboard and sliding her thumbnail between her teeth. Mercurio glanced at her when he slid into the driver’s seat, but apparently decided against pressing the issue of her unlatched seat belt. Instead, he tuned the radio to a late-night talk show to fill the silence as they started toward downtown.

Twenty minutes later Mercurio pulled up to the curb in front of a building with _Skyeline Apartments_ blazoned above the main entrance. “So, uh,” he started, digging a keycard out of his pocket and extending it out to her, “you’re in apartment 4, fourth floor. Want me to walk you up?” He scratched at the back of his head when she only took the keycard with an apathetic shrug. “Okay,” he sighed, opening his door. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

They left the car with its four-ways blinking, and Madison tried very hard not to think about the last ascent she’d made in an elevator’s cab. She blinked at the small foyer when the doors slid open. “I’m the only apartment on this floor?”

“Yeah. Nice, huh?” Mercurio said, stepping out of the elevator with her. “Plenty of privacy. You can also access the place from the ventilation system in the basement if you ever need to, y’know – avoid the neighbors.” He gestured at the keypad affixed to the wall beside the apartment door. “You need the keycard and the door code to get in. They left directions for resetting it; I put ‘em next to your computer.”

“Computer?”

He shrugged as he punched in the entry code and held the door for her. “Boss said to get you an upgrade.” The mention of LaCroix stiffened her spine and soured her stomach, but she set her jaw and walked into the apartment. And stared. It was roughly ten times the size and twenty times the price range of the miserable little room above the pawn shop. She turned her head stiffly to the left to observe the giant fish tank that took up the entryway wall. It was stocked.

“Your things’re in your room,” Mercurio said, stepping into the apartment behind her and closing the door. “I, uh, didn’t unpack for you. Didn’t feel right pawing through your – ” She rounded on him, fist missing his head by inches. “_Je_sus,” he yelped, ducking away from the plaster dust billowing from the ruined wall. Madison pulled her fist loose and swung at him again. “Shit, kid, what’re you – ?”

“Why’d you tell me to call him?” she screamed. She misjudged her third swing and put another hole in the wall behind the ghoul. She snatched her hand back, trembling. “Why couldn’t you just help me?”

Mercurio eyed her warily; she glared back, still shaking. When she didn’t move to attack him again he closed the distance between them, settling his hands on top of her shoulders. He started to say something, but choked on his inhalation when her eyes flooded with tears. “Ah, Christ,” he muttered, pulling her into a rough hug. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Madison broke. She clung to him as she sobbed, arms cinched around his middle and face pressed into his chest. He let her cry, one hand rubbing mindless circles against her back until her tears tapered off into watery hiccups; then he led her to the couch, guiding her to sink into its overstuffed cushions. “You need a blood pack?” he asked, one hand covering the fingers she kept tangled in his shirt. She shook her head, sniffling and tugging at him until he took the hint and sat beside her. He didn’t complain when she immediately burrowed into his side, just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and rested his jaw against the crown of her head. They sat in relative silence until the worst of her trembling passed.

“I had a cat,” she said finally, voice hoarse and wavering and too loud in the quiet of the apartment. “And houseplants I didn’t water, and a niece that just turned two. My sister was pregnant again – I was pulling for a Halloween baby.” She started to cry again, quietly. “I’m never going to know if she has a girl or a boy. My family’s never gonna know what – what...” Her grip on his shirt tightened. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to be a monster.”

His sigh stirred her hair. “You’re not a monster, doll.”

“LaCroix is.” His startled bark of laughter jostled her. She frowned and pressed back against him, chilled by the sudden lack of body heat. “He is.”

“Kid, you – ” He tried to wriggle out of her hold, but she tightened her arm around his chest and refused to be moved. He gave up, leaning back into the cushions and pressing the heel of his free hand against his forehead. “LaCroix’s not a monster, kiddo,” he said with an incredulous chuckle.

“You have to say that,” she said dully.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head. She could feel him looking at her, but she refused to look up. He sighed again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, okay, my loyalty’s written in blood,” he admitted. “But I’ve still got some objectivity. And – I’ve worked for a lot of monsters, sweetheart. Some of ‘em even had the excuse of bein’ like you. LaCroix can be an asshole, sure, but he’s not one of them. He’s just doing what he has to to survive, same as everybody else.”

“He would’ve killed you,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, and I’m always gonna owe you for not ratting me out,” he said, giving her a brief squeeze. “But there’s a lotta history there you don’t know. Before we hauled ass across the country for this L.A. gig, we worked outta New York, and a couple years ago I fucked up bad. ‘Can never show my face in New York again’ bad. LaCroix had every right to send me up the river – hell, would’ve made things easier for him if he had. Instead he scraped me off the pavement and gave me another chance. Screwing up again after that...” He trailed off before clearing his throat. “Glad as I am to still be sittin’ here, I wouldn’t’ve blamed him.”

“Where was Heather’s second chance?” she asked bitterly.

He hesitated. “Kiddo, a ghoul that outta control – ” He cut himself short when she stiffened. “Look,” he said, starting again, “it’s dangerous in L.A. these days, even for bloodsuckers. If the wrong people got hold of her, they would’ve hurt her just to hurt you, tried to fuck with you to get to LaCroix.” He traced the edge of her burns with a finger. “Not to mention there’re hunters in town. You think that asshole Bach would’ve spared her? He would’ve burned her alive just for bein’ what you made her.”

Madison went completely, utterly still.

“I know I put the idea in your head,” Mercurio said, running his free hand messily through his hair. “I wish to God I’d kept my big trap shut. And I don’t blame ya if ya want to do something about it. But I told you to call him ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t listen to me if I told you to put her down. There was nothing else you could do.”

She sat up slowly, sliding out from underneath his arm. He let it drop to his side, drawing away from her as he watched her face apprehensively. Her empty stomach was threatening to turn itself inside out. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him – she curled forward, hiding her face in her hands. “Get out.” The cushions shifted as he stood, then the door opened and closed and he was gone. Madison didn’t move, wondering how an organ that no longer functioned could still ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the timing of the chapters that will cover the downtown epidemic isn't great. I hope you're all doing well and staying safe.


	11. Chapter 11

LaCroix scanned through the reports his sheriff had provided as the car hummed toward Venture Tower. None of them were particularly encouraging.

Hunters were swarming Hollywood like locusts. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain why: Isaac Abrams was completely incapable of curbing the petty temper tantrums of his wayward childe. Ash Rivers’ latest stunt in thumbing his nose at the Masquerade had been to emerge, completely unscathed, from the smoking ruin of the car he’d smashed into a concrete pylon. It was his second such miraculous escape in a year, and the media had taken notice. By rights, he should’ve been dragged up on Nocturne’s stage and administered the Final Death he so clearly craved, but Isaac was ridiculously attached to his childer, and Sebastian wasn’t willing to wage a war for the minor satisfaction the whelp’s destruction would’ve brought him.

As a result of the heavy hunter presence, the Hollywood Nosferatu had all but disappeared into their underground warrens. Gary maintained just enough contact to remain politic, but the stream of information that had been flowing out of Tinseltown regarding the Anarch Movement had dried to a trickle. LaCroix wasn’t foolish enough to assume it was the hunters alone contributing to the information blackout – Gary was reacting to Nines’s challenge of Camarilla authority, battening down the hatches and biding his time to see who emerged victorious. Sebastian would remember the sewer rat’s treachery once the soul had been burned out of the so-called “Free State.”

The Anarchs themselves had remained remarkably quiet since Liam’s execution. There had been one or two isolated skirmishes with the Sabbat – nothing that threatened the Masquerade, and LaCroix was more than happy to let the two sects waste their time and resources bloodying one another. No, the sect that had his attention, that made his Beast’s hackles rise, was the Kuei-jin.

Agents both Cathayan and mortal had been observed coming and going from Xiao’s Golden Temple at all hours, their purpose unknown. The few the Camarilla had managed to detain and interrogate had been unable to shed much light on the matter – the High Priestess of Chinatown carefully compartmentalized the information her operatives received. What was clear was that the Tong were buying up enough ordinance to start a war. Or, perhaps more accurately, to continue one. It seemed the long-standing stalemate was winding down to its inevitable end. Perhaps their bullets were meant for rival gangs. Sebastian scoffed, tapping the folders distractedly against his thigh. And perhaps Nines Rodriguez would ascend his tower and bend the knee.

His phone buzzed with an email notification as the car pulled up to the curb. Sebastian opened it automatically, brow creasing as he read the bizarre message.

> _From: [beedee5857@dci.vtm]  
Subject: A Proposition_  
Greetings, Golden Prince.
> 
> It has come to this one’s attention that the grout in your cabinetry needs to be replaced. One knows how distasteful such menial tasks can be for royalty, so this one (being Bellamie Declan and of sound body) humbly submits their nomination for head spackler. Please get back to me with your acceptance immediately. Later? Soon.
> 
> Toodles.

LaCroix’s frown deepened. The Foundation’s Nosferatu-supported network security precluded the chance this was some sort of spam. The rambling and generally incoherent tone suggested a Malkavian sender, but the name was unknown to him. Neither fact improved his mood, but the mention of Grout was especially troubling. The former primogen’s fate wasn’t yet public knowledge – no one should be petitioning to take his place. His driver opened and held the door for him; as LaCroix stepped out of the car, he forwarded the message to Tung with a memo instructing the Nosferatu to send him a complete background check on the sender, their domain, and any alliances of note. Then he sent a reply inviting the Malkavian to visit the Tower at their earliest convenience. That done, he tucked the folders under his arm, straightened his tie, and strode into the Venture Tower lobby.

Sadly, the interior of his Tower brought no respite.

“I’m not tryin’ to be a Louis Law here, Mr. Beckett, but Mr. LaCroix plain isn’t here. I’d be in violation of building security protocol 916 if I let you up without his say-so.”

The tall, thin figure of the last kindred Sebastian wanted to deal with right now chuckled. “And while I’m sure Mr. LaCroix deeply values your exemplary dedication to your duties –” The security guard preened, the sardonic edge to the Gangrel’s words apparently flying right over his head. “– I have it on good authority that I’m expected.”

“You are,” LaCroix interjected, striding up to the man and extending his hand. “Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Beckett.”

The Noddist turned to face him. “Mr. LaCroix,” he said, shaking his hand with an air of insouciance that made the Ventrue want to snap his arm off. “I was beginning to fear I’d somehow given offense and subsequently fallen from your good graces.”

“Impossible,” LaCroix assured him through a wooden smile. “We’re honored to have a scholar of your renown visit our city.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are,” Beckett said, undisguised boredom in his voice as he drew his hand back.

Sebastian grit his teeth. “Officer Chunk,” he said, ignoring the way Beckett’s eyebrow traveled toward his hairline. “Mr. Beckett is to be given unrestricted access to my offices, is that clear?”

“Yessir, Mr. LaCroix. You’re the boss.”

Merciful. Christ. LaCroix swept an arm toward the elevators. “Shall we?”

Beckett nodded. “Yes, I really think we should.”

“Yeah, you, uh, have a good power meetin’ or whatever it is you types do up there,” Chunk called after them as they hurried around the security desk. Neither kindred bothered to acknowledge he’d spoken.

“I apologize for not declaring my presence in your domain earlier,” Beckett said, not sounding the least bit contrite as the elevator began its journey toward the upper-most floors. “I was side-tracked by a thin blood in Santa Monica; the poor creature has the gift of foresight and absolutely no idea what she’s saying. Simply fascinating.”

“I’m sure,” Sebastian said shortly, trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. The Gangrel’s crimson eyes peered at him from over the top of his darkened lenses, that infuriating half-smile never leaving his face. “I would have thought the Ankaran Sarcophagus more in line with your usual areas of interest.”

“Is that so?” Beckett’s smile only spread. “I had no idea we were so well-acquainted, you and I.”

It had been some time since Sebastian had been required to walk on eggshells to placate an elder’s temperament; he’d forgotten how much he loathed it. “I meant only that you have a reputation regarding items of potential historical significance to kindred society.”

Beckett held his insolent expression another few seconds before he chuckled. “A reputation can be a dreadfully tiring thing to have,” he remarked, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Yes. Well,” Sebastian said, silently grateful when the elevator doors slid open outside his office. “If there’s anything I can do to accommodate you while you’re here, please – ”

“You can _accommodate_ me by leaving me to my work,” Beckett interrupted, holding the elevator open with one arm. “I have no interest in the petty politics of your city or the power struggles of the Jyhad – I wish to be left alone to study the sarcophagus at my leisure.”

Sebastian nodded stiffly. “Of course.” So Beckett was interested in the sarcophagus as well – he might’ve guessed. “I would be most appreciative if you would forward me any relevant information you discover.”

“Oh?” The scholar’s head tilted with what appeared to be genuine interest. “And what would you consider ‘relevant information?’”

“Anything to disprove the ridiculous rumors circulating throughout my city.”

“Ah. And here I hoped I’d finally met a kindred spirit.” Beckett smirked at the vexated crease marring LaCroix’s brow. “I’m more than happy to disprove the allegations that these are the Final Nights. I’ll keep you apprised,” he promised, dropping his arm and letting the elevator doors fall closed between them. Sebastian waited until the cab was several floors below him to release his pent-up irritation in a hissing sigh, posture ram-rod straight as he turned and stalked into his office.

He was allowed an hour unmolested before the office phone rang, the security extension flashing across the Caller ID. “Uh, Mr. LaCroix? There’s a Mr. Mercury – sorry, Mercurio here to see you.”

“Send him up.” He continued scanning the sheet in his hands – a message from Strauss requesting a private audience for heaven-knew-what – until his ghoul stepped through the office door.

Immediately, he set the paper aside. “Well?”

Mercurio approached the desk slowly, hands buried in his pockets. “She’s all set up. The skeeve who installed the cameras is on his way upstate thanks to an anonymous tip, and Mitnick got a couple of ghouls installed as the new security team.”

LaCroix frowned. They both knew he hadn’t been asking about the building’s security detail.

Mercurio winced, raising a hand to his temple as if he had a sudden headache. “She thinks you’re a monster.”

“I see.” It was hardly surprising – she was young, and the punishment which had been meted out, while necessary, no doubt seemed barbaric to one so recently among the living themselves. He didn’t care if the childe moped – such behavior was a specialty of Toreadors – he only cared if she would remain loyal. “And?”

The ghoul scratched at the back of his head. “I dunno, boss. She threw me out when I told her it had to be done.”

“I see,” he said again, leaning forward to rest his chin atop the bridge of his fingers. His gaze swam out of focus as his frown deepened. Perhaps he should have Mitnick re-activate the cameras – just in the living areas, he wasn’t a deviant – and monitor the feeds. Her choice of company could prove quite...educational in the weeks to come. Or perhaps he should move forward with a blood bond – though given the recent experience with her ghoul, it was doubtful she would consume his blood willingly.

“Boss?” Mercurio’s voice was strained. “Can you stop thinkin’ so hard? You’re killin’ me over here.”

LaCroix snapped back to attention to find his ghoul bent almost double, hands clutching at his temples. “My apologies,” he said, clamping down on the simmering frustration and other negative emotions echoing across the blood bond. He waited until the man straightened and looked a little less green to speak again. “I want her tailed until further notice. Where she goes, who she sees, the mortals she feeds from – I expect a full accounting of her nights.”

Mercurio nodded. “Yeah, okay, but...” His fingers drummed nervously against his thigh. “Permission to speak freely, boss?” The Ventrue’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. The ghoul’s mouth worked as if he was chewing on the words before he managed to spit them out: “Just remember she’s a kid, yeah? Not a soldier, not a gun-for-hire – hell, I doubt she ever even hit anybody before she died. I think she’ll bounce back if you leave her alone a while, but if you keep pushing her like you’ve been doin’, you’re gonna push her right into somebody else’s bed. So to speak.” He took a deep breath. “So maybe...try a little kindness? A little appreciation? It’s easier to catch flies with honey and all that. That – that’s all,” he said, looking slightly amazed he’d gotten through the entire recitation.

LaCroix’s brows settled steadily lower over his eyes throughout the man’s impromptu speech, until he sat with a scowl resting atop the cradle of his fingers. “I see,” he said stiffly. “I will...consider what you’ve said. But understand this: I need allies I can depend on, not childer who can be swayed by something as petty as having their feelings hurt.” He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track – have you received your stipend this month?”

Mercurio’s expression became unmistakably yearning, but he shook his head. “I’m not due for another week.”

“Well.” Sebastian pushed back his sleeve and cut his wrist on a fang, extending it out toward the ghoul. “A reward for tenacity, then.”

The man lost all semblance of self-restraint, rushing forward to grab Sebastian’s arm with both hands. His knees hit the floor as he sealed his mouth over the wound, moaning in delight as he began to suck. His blunt nails dug into the Ventrue’s skin, but he allowed it, petting one hand absently through the ghoul’s hair. The effort and the risk he’d taken to say what he had – he’d thought him above such sentimentality.

A little kindness, indeed.

“Enough,” he said at length, gratified when Mercurio immediately unlatched from his arm, licking the blood off his teeth as he rose slowly back to his feet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, boss, but what was that for?”

“I already told you,” LaCroix said, waving him back around to the other side of the desk. “Do not question the reasons for my generosity if you hope to receive it again in future. Now – what progress have we made narrowing the list of potential Sabbat strongholds?”

Mercurio cleared his throat, seeming relieved to be back on familiar ground, and they left the topic of the fledgling behind.


	12. Chapter 12

Madison stood, arms crossed, and stared at the door of the Last Round. This was probably a mistake. She shifted her weight to one foot, tapping the other against the pavement. Her body felt like a tightly wound spring, coiled energy with nowhere to go. This was _definitely_ a mistake. Yes, Jack was probably the only reason she’d survived past her first twenty minutes as a kindred, but... Well. There really wasn’t a “but” that could be placed after that. Not one she could live with. She huffed, unconsciously squaring her shoulders. Fine, then.

Damsel looked up from where she sat perched atop the bar, quickly covering her expression of shock with a sneer. “Hey, Cammy. Sabbat chase you in here?”

“I need to see Nines.”

“Too bad – he’s not here.”

Madison nodded, striding toward the stairs and trying not to worry about whatever substances were causing the soles of her shoes to stick to the floor. “Hey!” Damsel barked, pushing herself off the bar and hurrying after her. “Are you fuckin’ deaf?” Madison ignored the shorter woman – momentum was key. If she stopped moving she might lose her nerve.

Skelter stepped out of a side room, crossing his arms and doing his best impression of a brick wall at the foot of the stairs. “What’re you doing here, Cam?”

Madison marched forward until she was toe-to-toe with him. “I’m here to see Nines.”

“You’ve already been told he ain’t here. There something wrong with your ears?”

“Yeah, they don’t process bullshit.”

Both Anarchs’ expressions darkened. Damsel looked like she might choke on her outrage, while Skelter was visibly trying to decide whether to act on his threat to escort her ashes to the door – and then raucous laughter split the air.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! So the baby vamp grew a spine, huh? Christ, this shit’s better’n cable.”

Madison glanced over her shoulder to find Jack tucked at a booth in the corner, pantomiming wiping tears from his eyes as he grinned at their little group.

“What the hell are you laughing at, grandpa?” Damsel snarled, baring her fangs.

Jack’s grin only widened. “Better cover those milk teeth before I yank ‘em outta your head, Mama.”

“Enough.”

Madison turned to find Nines leaning over the railing overlooking the stairwell. “Surprise, surprise – look who’s here.”

Nines’s expression was nonplussed. “We keeping you from a board meeting, kid?”

She scowled. She knew she looked ridiculous in her silk blouse and pencil skirt – she’d dressed to meet with a primogen, not visit a dive bar. “Yes, by all means – continue to insult me. That never gets old.”

The leader of the Anarchs shrugged. “You want to talk, talk.”

“Fine. The Tremere regent says you’re responsible for the plaguebearer.”

There was a second of perfect silence. “That goddamn blood witch said what?” Damsel muttered, seemingly too shocked to shout. It didn’t last. “Magic missile-casting motherfucker – augh!”

Nines ignored her outburst, gaze fixed on Madison. “What do you say?”

She lifted her chin. “I say you’re not stupid enough to shit in your own backyard. Although dealing with this crap every time I come in here, I’m starting to rethink that opinion.”

Jack started chuckling again behind her. Nines studied her face closely before he nodded. “All right. Skelter – bring her up.”

Skelter frowned as Nines disappeared from the top of the stairs, but he didn’t argue. “Come on,” he said. “And remember, Cam – you’d best keep a civil tongue in your head.”

Damsel stomped back over to the bar as they climbed the stairs. “Aww, don’t pout ‘cause you got left behind, Mama,” Jack taunted.

“Fuck you, Jack,” she shot back.

Any response he might’ve made was lost under the opening bars of the song Nines selected from the ancient jukebox in the corner. The Anarch dropped into a nearby chair, arching an eyebrow at her and kicking the chair across the table from him out far enough for her to sit. “And they say chivalry is dead,” she snarked as she sank into the offered seat.

“That and the American Dream, kid.” A tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes flickered across his face. Behind her, Skelter leaned against the banister at the top of the stairs. “So why are you really here?”

She frowned at him. “I told you.”

“Kid, I got a million other things I could be doing right now. I don’t have time for games, so I’m just gonna ask you straight out – what does LaCroix think this little stunt of yours is gonna get him?”

Her posture stiffened. “I came on my own.”

“Right. A baby like you just happened to hear about a plaguebearer and decided to do something about it.” He crossed his hands behind his head, raising his eyes to contemplate the ceiling. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

“Oh, for – You know what? Fine,” she snapped. “I only came here because I believe in repaying my debts. You want to let the Camarilla railroad you for this, be my guest.” She stood and turned back toward the stairs.

“You know, I can’t decide if it’s actually this easy to push your buttons or if this is a huge pile of horseshit,” Nines remarked calmly behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her, eyes hooded.

“I don’t care what you think,” she said. The nervous energy that had carried her since she’d left Strauss’s chantry was nearly spent. She suddenly felt tired – why had this seemed like something she needed to do? She hugged her arms across her middle, unable to curb the words tumbling from her mouth. “I don’t care about your politics, or your war – it’s pretty much still just words to me. But you were being blamed for something that seems like a pretty big deal without a lick of proof, so I came to – ” She blew out a heavy breath. “I don’t even know. Let you know it was happening, I guess. And I did. So.” She shrugged, feeling vaguely foolish pinned beneath his considering gaze.

“Heh. Nice speech, kiddo. We’ll make an Anarch outta you yet.” All eyes shifted to Jack standing at the top of the stairs.

“Something you wanna contribute, Jack?” Nines asked.

“Nah, you know this three-ring political bullshit bores me to tears. Just came up to make sure you kids were still playing nice.”

Nines grunted as his gaze flicked back to Madison. “Okay, kid – have a seat.”

She tensed. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m gonna take a chance and believe you’re still young and green enough to mean what you say,” he said. “And because a plaguebearer’s bad news for everyone. Damsel!” he hollered, making her jump slightly.

“_What_?”

“Get up here!” Nines shouted, rolling his eyes.

There was a clatter, then a series of smaller bangs. “_Fine_!” Madison wondered if the woman was capable of doing anything quietly as the kindred stomped up the stairs. “What?” Damsel asked sourly, crossing her arms over her chest and pointedly ignoring Jack’s presence.

“Ben’s ghoul – the one tracking hospital admittances. He been in lately?”

“Paul?” One hip jutted to the side as she considered the question. “He’s been kind of a stranger, actually. Don’t think we’ve seen him in at least three days.”

Nines frowned. “And no one thought to check on him?”

Damsel glanced at Madison with a scowl. “He lives in a Cammy-owned building – didn’t wanna bring any heat down on him.”

They were suddenly all looking at her. “Well, don’t that work out perfectly,” Jack said dryly.

“No,” Madison said, already shaking her head. “I’m not – I don’t want to get involved.”

“Too late, kid – you’re already in it,” Nines said. “I can guaran-damn-tee LaCroix knew about it the second you walked through our door.”

Her legs started shaking. She was going to be sick. She sank back into the chair, pressing a trembling hand against her mouth.

“Kid? You okay?” Nines sat forward, gaze sharpening when he spied the bandage peeking out from underneath her sleeve. “What’s that?” Glancing toward her for permission, he took her hand in his and peeled the gauze back with careful fingers. His brows knitted together at the sight of her burns. “What the fuck is this?”

Madison swallowed, trying to wrestle herself back under control. “You don’t know?”

Nines’s expression grew thunderous. “That fucker _burned_ you?” Damsel and Skelter drew in twin hissing breaths; the temperature in the room seemed to plummet ten degrees.

She slumped forward, propping her head in her free hand. Their anger only unsettled her further. “Isn’t that what hunters _do_?”

“_Hunters_? Where the hell did you run into hunters in L.A.?” he demanded, grip tightening around her fingers.

She winced and drew her hand back. “They weren’t...downtown,” she muttered. She smoothed her sleeve back over her wrist as she studied his face. “You don’t – you _don’t_ know, do you?”

He frowned at her. “Kid, you can start talking sense any time now.”

She grinned, surprised at the relief that flooded through her. “Don’t – it’s...don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Not really, no.” Nines’s expression was stony. “I need to know where you saw those hunters.”

The relief evaporated. “I told you – they weren’t near downtown.”

“I didn’t ask where they _weren’t_.”

Her stomach muscles contracted tightly. “I don’t – ”

“Kid. Listen to me,” Nines said, leaning forward in his seat. “I don’t care about some bullshit nondisclosure agreement that asshole made you sign – I care about keeping my people safe.”

She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap. “Outside Hollywood, in the Hills.”

He searched her face before his shoulders relaxed and he sat back. “Okay. Thanks.”

She fidgeted, lowering her gaze to stare at the floor. “You’re welcome.”

There was a short, awkward silence. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” Damsel snapped. “I don’t know about the rest of you princesses, but I don’t have time to navel-gaze all night.” She stepped around Madison’s chair, leaning down to look her in the eye. “Paul lives in the Skyeline Apartments, number five. If the Camarilla actually gives a damn about the people outside their tower, they’ll let you help us.”

Madison nodded and slipped out of her seat with a strained smile.

“Kid.”

She paused, eyes fixed on the stairs.

“It took guts to walk back in here,” Nines said. “You ever get sick of taking LaCroix’s shit, you let me know.”

She hesitated before turning back to face him. “Can I ask you something?”

He eyed her speculatively. “Sure.”

“What do you do if a ghoul violates the Masquerade?”

His gaze sharpened into suspicion. “Weirdly specific question, newbie.”

She shrugged, only vaguely curious about the nerve she’d unintentionally struck. “Hypothetically.”

“Hmph.” He crossed his arms, expression still skeptical. “_Hypothetically_, any ghoul that steps that far outta line needs to be put down. We got enough troubles – we don’t need hunters breathing down our necks.”

She ducked her head, biting at the inside of her lip. “Oh.” She could feel them looking at her; she took a deep breath, setting her jaw before she flicked her hair out of her eyes. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

“See you around, kid.”

She turned and headed back out into the L.A. night.


	13. Chapter 13

LaCroix studiously ignored the strident ringing of his office phone. The Caller ID repeatedly flashed the security desk’s extension, but he had no appointments scheduled and wasn’t in the mood to cater to whatever tantrum might’ve inspired a disgruntled kindred to try and seek an audience off the street. After the brief, unpleasant meeting he’d convened to officially inform the primogen of Grout’s fate, he would’ve preferred not having to speak with anyone for the rest of the evening. There were nights he would’ve given his eyeteeth for a proper court with a seneschal that could be trusted to handle the miscellany of kindred affairs.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to drive back a growing headache. All things in due time. First the city needed to be brought fully under Camarilla control. To that end, his sheriff was out hunting, armed with the addresses of derelict buildings owned by promisingly difficult-to-trace corporations. If he had to burn the Sabbat out one den at a time, so be it.

The phone finally went to voicemail. And immediately began to ring again. LaCroix fixed it with a look that should have reduced it to smoldering cinders before snatching up the handset. “Officer Chunk – which part of ‘I don’t wish to be disturbed’ eludes you?”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry, Mr. LaCroix, but I’ve got Ms. Langford down here with me and she says she needs to see you right away.”

That was enough to give him pause. Impressive as her performance had been thus far, he doubted she’d managed to find and eliminate a plaguebearer in the few hours she’d been out of his presence. Nor had he sent for her. His mind flashed to the photo he’d been forwarded, time-stamped just under an hour ago, of the fledgling entering the Anarch bar.

If this was some clumsy assassination attempt, he was going to be incredibly annoyed.

“Very well. Send her up.”

He resumed perusing the quarterly analysis from his CFO, pretending he wasn’t exceedingly aware of the soft hum of the elevator as it ascended. He glanced up at the unexpected sound of heels clicking against the marble flooring. The fledgling swept into the room with her head held high, striding to his desk with a measured, unhurried tread. It was a very good performance – but she couldn’t quite hide the tremor in her hands before she clasped them demurely in front of her. “Prince LaCroix. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Miss Langford.” He sat back and folded his hands atop his desk. “I’m gratified to see you took my advice before visiting Strauss.”

Her lips thinned, a spark of anger burning in her gaze before she caught herself. “Yes, sir.”

He waited, arching a brow when she remained silent. “I was given the impression you needed to see me quite urgently, Miss Langford.”

“Yes. I do.” It was clear that whatever had prompted this visit, her resolve was crumbling. “That is – there’s something I thought you should know, and I thought you should hear it from me first.”

He tilted his head. “Yes?”

She took a deep breath. “I visited the Anarchs tonight.”

Sebastian waited, but she didn’t elaborate, only clenched her jaw and tensed as if waiting for a lightning bolt to smite her where she stood. He tried not to frown. “While I appreciate you keeping me informed, Miss Langford, I don’t need to be apprised of every step of your progress.”

She gaped at him. “You don’t care?”

“Was it a necessary step in your investigation?”

“I – yes, but –”

“Were you plotting sedition against the Camarilla?”

She somehow managed to grow even paler. “No – !”

“Then why should I care?” he asked with a slight shrug. She regarded him with the wide-eyed confusion of a skittish colt. He sighed. “Miss Langford, you have proven...remarkably adaptable in accomplishing the tasks I’ve asked of you. If it wasn’t understood, let me be clear – you have my blessing to conduct this investigation by any means you deem necessary save those that threaten the Masquerade.” She stared at him as if he’d started speaking in tongues. “If there was nothing else?” he prompted.

Her face contorted in frustration. “No, sir.” But she still didn’t move, only stared at the floor and worried at the cuffs of her sleeves.

“Miss L – ”

“Does this shit ever get any easier?” she blurted out miserably. She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes widening in horror. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – ” She flinched and cut herself short when he rose from his chair.

He kept his eyes on her face as he circled the desk to stand in front of her. “To which ‘shit’ are you referring?”

The strangled..._noise_ that erupted from her throat made him wince. “You made me kill someone last night,” she muttered through her fingers.

It was hardly that simple, but she was too young and resentful to appreciate a debate on semantics. “Yes.”

“You made me _murder_ someone for breaking a law she didn’t even know existed,” she continued, appearing not to have heard him. Her voice began to rise in strength and volume. “You would’ve killed me for a crime I didn’t even commit – how can you not care that I went to see the Anarchs?!” Her anger burned out as quickly as it had ignited; she flinched away from his gaze, trembling.

His tone was glacial. “I will excuse your outburst because you have shown great potential, and because what was asked of you was not easy. But my patience is not limitless, fledgling – this is the last such display I will tolerate.” She didn’t reply, face stubbornly averted. He was a hair’s breadth from forcing her to meet his eyes and ordering her from his office; instead he grimaced and stalked back around his desk, sinking into his chair once more. “Now, were you actually interested in an answer, or did you simply wish to shout at me?” She finally glanced at him, surprise writ clearly across her features. He waved a hand at one of the high-backed chairs across his desk. “Well?”

She perched gingerly on the edge of the seat.

He sat forward, tapping one finger against his desk to punctuate his words. “Yes, you were required to kill a mortal to uphold the Masquerade. I will not apologize for doing what was necessary to keep our kind safe. Yes, I would have been within my rights to execute you along with your sire – under Camarilla law, your very existence was a crime. I chose to spare you. You are hardly the first fledgling to enter this life under disadvantageous circumstances – you can continue to complain about what I could have done, or you can make something of my generosity. No, it was not a crime to visit the Anarchs – you may recall I sent you to them myself. Despite their protests otherwise, we are not at war, and despite your age and relative inexperience in kindred affairs, I trust you have a sound enough head on your shoulders not to take the propaganda they spew at face value.”

He paused to give her a chance to speak, but she only watched him, her expression unreadable. “As to your question of whether it gets easier...” He settled back in his chair, considering the myriad potential answers to that question. “Yes – but it requires the shedding of many preconceptions. If you’re unable to divest yourself of certain aspects of your mortal life, you will not survive this one.” He looked into her eyes – still too open, too vulnerable – and was surprised to find he meant his next words. “It is my sincere hope that you do survive, Miss Langford. You’ve made a promising start – it would be a shame to see that potential wasted.”

She stared at him, seemingly not sure how to respond; she fidgeted in her seat before dropping her gaze to where her hands moved restlessly over one another in her lap. Sebastian huffed. “Speak freely, Miss Langford – I would prefer to avoid these sorts of theatrics going forward.”

She tensed, darting a furtive look at his face before she returned her gaze to her lap. “Why didn’t you kill me? Not last night,” she hastened to add when his brows drew together. “The first night. With Liam.”

He rested his chin in his hand, studying her. “Would you have preferred that I had?”

She lifted a hand half-way to her mouth, then caught herself and returned it to her lap. “No.” She hunched forward and wrapped her arms around herself. “That probably makes me a horrible person.”

“For wishing to avoid death? Selfish, perhaps, but what creature isn’t in securing its continued existence?”

“How much longer do I have to do this?” she asked plaintively, not lifting her head.

“Do what, Miss Langford?”

“_This_,” she said, waving one hand in the air between them. “Stay here. Work for you.” She swallowed. “Kill people.”

He frowned. “You are my childe. You will remain until I’m confidant in your ability to navigate kindred society without embarrassing both of us. For the immediate future, you remain because Los Angeles is one of the few domains in which I can ensure your safety. Sabbat raids are not the only threat to a fledgling’s existence these nights. As to the ‘work’ you find so distasteful, once the Ankaran Sarcophagus is safely under Camarilla control, there should be considerably less need for you to go skulking through the shadows like a Nosferatu.”

She curled a little further into herself; she spoke more to her knees than to him. “Everyone I’ve talked to said what happened to Heather was right.” Her voice was edged with a bewildered hurt.

Sebastian’s frown deepened. “It’s not a question of what was ‘right,’” he said. “It’s a question of what was necessary.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she said, some of her earlier anger lending acid to her words.

“You saw what a single hunter can do at Grout’s mansion. Do you imagine we could stand against the entirety of humanity if they became aware we walked among them?” He exhaled sharply when she tilted her face further away from him. “Our laws exist for a reason, Miss Langford. You are not exempt fro – ”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

She sounded tired. More than tired. He made himself rein in his irritation. “Few do.”

She remained silent so long he checked his watch. He chose to wait her out. “I miss things,” she said quietly. “Sushi. The warmth of the sun on my skin. My family.” Her voice wavered, but she grit her teeth and pushed on. “Will that ever go away?”

It was...not the response he’d been expecting. “This life is not without its sacrifices. Such yearnings will fade with time.”

“I’ll forget?” She didn’t sound pleased with the prospect.

He chose his words with care. “No. But the recollection will not cause the same pain.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, briefly pressing her face into her hands before she straightened and met his eyes once more. “Nines wasn’t at Grout’s mansion.”

He didn’t allow his expression to waver. “And you know this because...”

“I spoke with him at the Last Round.”

“I see.” He examined her face closely, fingers drumming against his desk. “And you believe him?”

“I do,” she said with a nod. “I don’t know what I saw, but it wasn’t him.”

“I suppose it would be pointless to ask if that dive of theirs has security footage that could corroborate his claims.” He would have to have Tung look into it. He sincerely hoped they didn’t – even the primogen would find it a very large coincidence that CCTV footage had been corrupted or destroyed.

She regarded him unhappily. “I don’t know. You don’t believe him?”

“What I believe will matter very little,” he said. “As soon as Grout has been replaced, this matter will be brought before the council – they will be the ones to decide Mr. Rodriguez’s fate.” He held up a hand to stall her. “You may present Mr. Rodriguez’s claims – and your belief in their veracity – at that time.”

The groove between her eyebrows remained, but she nodded. “All right.” She hesitated, searching his expression. “What did you miss? After the Embrace.”

He stared at her, taken aback. “That was...a long time ago, childe.”

Something in her eyes shuttered, but she only nodded again and stood. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

She’d turned away by the time he spoke. “Sunlight on the waters of _La Manche_.” She paused and glanced back at him. He cleared his throat, surprised at the flood of memories he’d thought long-buried. “The crying of the gulls in the harbor. Loaves of freshly-baked bread.” They regarded one another silently. Finally, he sighed. “As I said, such things fade. Survive long enough and you’ll barely think of them.”

Something like melancholy creased her brow. “Isn’t that...sad?”

The sentimentality irked him. “It is reality. If you wish to hear someone wax poetic about the state of undeath, you should visit your clan’s primogen.”

She glanced at the floor, twisting her fingers around each other. “Would it have been easier – this whole thing? If I wasn’t a Toreador?”

She was in such earnest that he swallowed his initial biting response. “The Clan of the Rose is infamous for the depth of their passions. But the transition period after the Embrace is a trial for every fledgling.” He could see the next logical question forming behind her lips. “The plaguebearer won’t wait on your curiosity, Miss Langford.”

She winced as she very blatantly bit her tongue. “Right. Sorry. I’ll be going.”

He didn’t watch her leave, his eyes back on his financial reports and his head full of ghosts.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Survivors of assault may find some sections of this chapter uncomfortable.
> 
> A friend recently introduced me to the Artbreeder website, and it's great fun. I used it to hash out a fairly faithful portrait of Madison. Hair's not perfect, but we'll say she's just rolled out of bed and is in desperate need of a trim.

  


Madison crawled out of the ventilation shaft, ignoring the black smears she left on the kitchen floor. The back of her throat was full of the stench of disease from Paul and Hannah’s apartments. She’d been too late to save either of them – it seemed a kindred’s blood couldn’t counteract everything. She pushed herself to her feet, shuddering as she stripped out of her filthy clothing. Leaving it in a messy trail behind her, she placed Hannah’s appointment book on the counter before padding barefoot to the bathroom.

She didn’t bother to wait for the water to warm up before plunging beneath the shower’s spray, turning her face into the stream and letting it sluice the grime from her pores. She scrubbed at her skin until it felt raw, scraping her nails through her hair in an effort to remove any and all lingering odor from her scalp. She’d scoured herself into a convincing facsimile of life by the time she exited the shower; wrapping a towel around herself, she padded back to the kitchen, snagging a blood pack from the fridge before settling atop one of the stools at the island counter.

Hannah had been feverish, half-way to delirious; Madison hadn’t even needed to use her disciplines to convince the poor woman Paul had sent her. In the midst of her rambling she’d mentioned a strange client. It was a slim lead, but all she had. If she was stuck doing this until LaCroix saw fit to release her, she might as well give it her best – for the safety of the rest of L.A., if nothing else. She ripped the blood pack open as she flipped through the appointment book’s last few pages.

One of the final entries caught her eye:

_9/17: Jezebel Locke – New client, responded to my ad in the paper. Wants to meet at the Empire Arms Hotel. Offering big bucks, too much to pass up._

She drained the last of the blood, considering. Nothing in the entry suggested Jezebel Locke was strange, per se, but she was the only client noted to be new going back months. Leaving the empty blood pack on the counter next to the appointment book, she glanced at the clock on the wall as she made her way to the computer. It was four in the morning.

A quick online search revealed the Empire Arms was only a few blocks from her building. She propped her chin in one hand as she studied the pictures of the lobby. Hannah’s appointment with Jezebel had been several days ago – there was no guarantee the woman was even in the city at this point. Still, where was the harm in checking it out? If it was a dead end, she’d only be out the fifteen minutes it took her to walk to the hotel and back. And if it wasn’t...well, she’d figure something out.

Mind made up, she made a quick detour into the bedroom to throw on a t-shirt and jeans, then stopped off in the kitchen long enough to bundle her discarded clothing into a trash bag which she dropped down the garbage chute. The air was heavy with the scent of ozone when she stepped out onto the street; she wasn’t surprised to find dark storm clouds rolling in from the ocean.

Of course it was going to rain.

She increased the length of her stride, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket.

The Empire Arms’s lobby was as luxuriously decorated as the photos had suggested. She shuffled self-consciously in the entryway, wondering if she shouldn’t have dressed in something a little fancier. Like an evening gown.

The concierge regarded her with an expression of polite disdain as she approached the desk. She hadn’t known those two sentiments could coexist on the same face. “May I help you?”

She smiled, calling on her vitae to render the space between them into something invitingly conspiratorial as she leaned across the desk. “I hope so,” she said. “Do you have a guest named Jezebel Locke staying here?”

“That’s – ” The man blinked, shook his head. Fixed her with a slightly puzzled look before he turned to his computer. “Yes, we do.”

“Uh.” Madison blinked. “Can I have a key to her room?”

“One moment.” The man disappeared into a back room, reappearing a moment later with a keycard in his hand. “Here you are,” he said, handing it over with a smile. “Miss Locke is staying in the Brooklyn Suite, on the fifth floor. Enjoy your visit.”

“Thank you – I will.” Madison slid the keycard into her back pocket before she stepped away from the desk. Taking a deep breath, she called one of the lobby elevators and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Well, she was here. And Jezebel was apparently still here. Now what?

Before she’d come up with a satisfactory answer, the bell dinged and the elevator doors slid open. She stepped out into a hall covered in cream wallpaper and dark wainscoting, her feet actually sinking into the plush carpet. Madison’s eyebrows rose. Whoever she was, Jezebel could clearly afford the best.

She checked the number on the keycard against the doors she passed, slowing when she approached the appropriate room. A quick glance around with her Auspex revealed sleeping humans behind the walls surrounding Jezebel’s room. Her room, however…

Madison frowned. The aura in Jezebel’s room flickered intermittently, flitting from blue to lavender to red to violet, the colors always shot through with black veins that squirmed in a perverse parody of life.

She’d never seen an aura like that before – it was _wrong_ in a way that made her skin crawl. She let her Auspex drop, shuddering. She should leave, drag some answers out of the Anarchs or Strauss or, hell, even LaCroix. Come back when she knew what she was facing. Maybe after letting Mercurio teach her how to shoot a gun. Or a bazooka.

The door to Jezebel’s room clicked open, and the kindred smiled at her. “Hello, little morsel,” she all but purred. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to linger outside a lady’s door?”

Madison’s apprehension melted away as the other vampire tilted her head. How could she have thought this woman might be a threat? The warmth of her voice, the way it seemed to glide over and around her, ensorcelling her – her presence was intoxicating.

Jezebel smirked and crooked a finger at her. “Wouldn’t you much rather come inside?”

Madison nodded eagerly. She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more in that moment than to be closer to Jezebel Locke; she followed willingly when the woman turned and led her into the room.

“Are you a believer, little morsel?” Jezebel asked as she picked up a pocketknife from a small end table. “Have you come for the kind of enlightenment only Jezebel can give?” Madison watched as the woman cut her palm open on the blade. “I have such things to show you, little morsel,” she whispered, reaching her bloody hand toward Madison’s face.

_“I want to show you something.”_

The breath froze in Madison’s desiccated lungs.

“Such beautiful, dirty little things.”

“S-stop,” Madison whispered.

Jezebel paused, brows drawing together. “What?”

Madison didn’t hear her. Her mind was full of Liam. Liam, who’d lured her to his hotel room, locked the door, and become a different person. Hands that had once caressed suddenly gripped hard enough to bruise, forcing her down onto the mattress. He’d pinned her with his weight, ignored her cries as he drained her. He’d held her down while he’d forced his blood down her throat, held her down while he _killed_ her –

She smacked Jezebel’s hand away. “I said stop!”

Jezebel laughed. “Oh, you cannot escape me, little morsel. One way or another, you and I will intertwine our beings on the way into the Ninth Circle, and I will send you forth full of the sweet sickness I carry.”

The woman’s Presence dragged at her senses. Madison grit her teeth and made herself stand up straight. “Fuck. You.”

The smile disappeared from Jezebel’s face. “Then the truth will be shown to you as I drink the blood from your twice-lifeless body.” She backhanded Madison across the face hard enough to send her spinning into a rosewood desk. Madison staggered, groping for anything that could be used as a weapon. Her fingers closed around a heavy paperweight as Jezebel loomed behind her; she spun on her heel and struck the woman in the temple with all her strength. Jezebel reeled back, hands flying reflexively to the ugly wound, and Madison took the opportunity to dart past her.

She staggered and dropped to one knee when Jezebel broke the desk’s chair across her back. She rolled instinctively, narrowly avoiding the talons the woman aimed at her spine. Her knee caught Jezebel in the jaw – a glancing blow, but enough to upset the other kindred’s balance and keep her from following through on her attack immediately. Madison kicked away from her, scrambling for one of the broken chair legs.

Jezebel caught her by the ankle just short of her target. “Such spirit, little morsel,” she wheezed, voice brimming with an inhuman hunger. “This will be ecstasy – such sweet ecstasy!”

Madison kicked her in the face and lunged for the make-shift stake. She grabbed it and twisted in one motion, catching Jezebel in the chest when the woman fell on her. Jezebel stiffened, then laughed, her blood speckling Madison’s face as she brought her palm down in an open-handed blow that snapped Madison’s collarbone. “Missed the heart, little – ”

Madison withdrew the chair leg far enough to re-angle it and _shoved_. Bone splintered, and Jezebel’s laughter abruptly died. She sagged atop her, dead weight; Madison pushed the woman’s body off her, making sure the stake was still lodged securely in her chest before she curled into a ball, trembling.

The sharp ache of her collarbone knitting back together was enough to bring her back to her immediate surroundings – she lifted her head, glancing around with her Auspex. The human auras surrounding her hadn’t stirred; she’d managed to fight for her life without threatening the Masquerade. She couldn’t decide if the thought should leave her giddy or sick, so she pushed it to the back of her mind, swallowed the bile in her throat, and started searching the suite for something she could use to bind Jezebel.

She settled for cutting the heavy curtain ties out of the window and using those. She propped Jezebel in the sole remaining ladder-back chair, binding her wrists to its arms and her ankles to its legs. She dragged an ottoman from the bedroom over to the bound vampire, then braced a hand on Jezebel’s shoulder and pulled the stake free. She hovered as the woman’s eyes fluttered open, ready to jam the stake back in if necessary, but Jezebel only took a quick, calculating look around before fixing Madison with a predatory smile.

“Hello again, little morsel.”

Madison felt the weight of the woman’s Presence, but the memory of her blows was enough to keep it at bay. “Hello,” she said. She settled gingerly atop the ottoman, resting the stake across her lap. “I have some questions for you.”

Jezebel sighed. “Questions are so _boring_,” she murmured as she leaned forward in her seat. “Wouldn’t you rather untie me?”

“Not really, no.”

Jezebel’s face contorted in a snarl; she lunged forward, snapping her teeth at Madison’s face like a rabid dog. Madison startled backward, almost falling off the ottoman before she regained her balance and stabbed the chair leg back into Jezebel’s chest. She scooted her seat back a little and propped her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, brow creasing as she frowned at the other kindred.

Sighing, she stood and started wandering around the suite again, not certain what she was looking for. She found a small appointment book on the nightstand – Hannah’s name was in it, alongside dozens of others. She shoved the book in her jacket pocket, feeling sick. How long had Jezebel been luring escorts here? She’d let LaCroix know about the most recent names – with luck, they might be able to get the humans Jezebel had infected the medical treatment they needed and prevent the disease spreading any further.

There was a small pile of flyers next to the appointment book; each flyer was emblazoned with a skull surrounded by the phrase _I AM ENLIGHTENED_ in heavy script. Madison took a sheet from the top of the pile and circled back around to Jezebel.

She chewed at her lip, staring at the woman before she wrapped herself in Presence. She hoped this would work – she’d mostly used the discipline to convince Sabbat shovelheads she was supposed to be in their warehouse or humans that there was nothing worth noticing about her increasingly ragged clothing during her first few nights in Santa Monica. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the stake free from Jezebel’s chest and smiled. “Hey,” she said, holding up the flyer where Jezebel could see it. “Do you want to tell me about this?”

Jezebel blinked languidly. “The path of the Ninth Circle,” she murmured. “Do you wish to join the Enlightened, little morsel? Join us in indulging your animal instincts until both kine and kindred lie spent upon the altar?”

“I’d love to,” Madison said, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted. “What’s the Ninth Circle?”

“We welcome the darkest dawn,” Jezebel said, her speech taking on the frenzied rhythms of a fanatic. “We share our unholy communion with our human herd until we all will journey below into the Ninth Circle.”

“That sounds wonderful, Jezebel,” Madison managed. She pushed at her with her vitae, made herself smile wider – just two old friends chatting, no reason to hold anything back. “Can you tell me how many of you there are?”

“You will know our sanctuaries by the symbol of our order blazoned upon them. Desire will be our truth, desire and the death that follows.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for, but Jezebel was rocking gently back and forth in her seat, gaze distant. Madison tried to push her again: “Okay, but how many of you are in the city?”

“Bishop Vick holds all the answers, but only for the Enlightened.” She moaned, the sound low and somehow obscene. “I cannot control my hunger! I am ravenous, the Bishop promised I would not go hungry – !”

Madison forced the stake back into the woman’s chest. She wanted to leave, wanted to curl up and sleep until this all went away. Instead she located the suite’s phone and dialed the number she’d received from Mercurio.

“Yes?”

She willed her voice to remain steady. “Prince LaCroix.”

“Miss Langford.” His tone was cool, remote. She hoped she was interrupting him in the middle of an incredibly important meeting.

“I’ve located one of the plaguebearers, but – ”

“_One_?” Then, muffled: “Excuse me, I have to take this. We can continue this tomorrow. Yes, all right, leave it with the security officer. Thank you.” There was a short silence as whomever the prince had dismissed left the office. “You may speak freely, Miss Langford.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt – ”

He cut her off with a wordless noise of impatience. “Accountants – nothing that can’t be handled another time. The plaguebearer?”

“I – there’s more than one, I don’t know exactly how many. The one I found answered a few questions, but my Presence doesn’t seem to affect her any more – ”

“You were able to compel answers from her with your Presence?”

There was something...strange in his voice when he asked the question. Madison bit anxiously at her thumbnail. “Yes?”

“Interesting,” LaCroix said distantly. He cleared his throat, his voice crisp and exacting again. “Do you know how to find the others?”

“Sort of? I have this symbol Jezebel says belongs to their order – ”

“Order?”

She stalled, her mouth forming uncertain, abortive shapes. “I guess? That’s what she called it… I mean, the way she described it, it sounds more like a cult.” She paused and pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Do vampires have cults?”

She couldn’t tell if it was humor or irritation coloring his voice. “Apparently, they do. If you have enough information to find the rest of this cult, dispatch the plaguebearer immediately. Bring me their symbol first thing tomorrow evening and we’ll ferret out the rest of them soon enough.” His next words managed to sound both tacked on at the last minute and somehow sincere. “You did well, Miss Langford.”

“Um...thanks. Do I have to kill her?” she blurted before he could disconnect the call.

There was a short, ominous silence. “What do you propose you do instead?”

“I don’t know,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “But there’s something weird about her aura – I think this cult _did_ something to her – ”

“What’s strange about her aura?” It seemed LaCroix was intent on only allowing her to finish one sentence in three in this conversation. His tone was sharp, however, so she swallowed the complaint and answered him.

“It’s full of these dark veins – ”

She cut herself short when he drew a hissing breath. “Amaranth.” Another word in her kindred-expanded vocabulary she didn’t recognize; he uttered it like a curse. He didn’t give her a chance to ask. “Madison, listen to me – that kindred is not a victim. Dispose of her immediately.”

“How?”

“Remove her head from her body.” His voice lost some of its harsh edge. “I’ll explain more fully tomorrow. But she’s guilty of one of the foulest crimes one can commit in the eyes of civilized kindred society.” There was a pause. “You continue to surprise me, childe.” Then the phone clicked in her ear and he was gone.

Madison placed the handset back in its cradle before glancing at Jezebel’s unconscious body. She inhaled deeply through her nose before she stood and approached her, gripping the woman’s chin and the back of her skull. She’d watched Jack break a man’s neck the night of her Embrace – surely all she had to do was imitate what he’d done. She steeled herself, tightening the muscles in her arms. She started to tremble, flexed her fingers against Jezebel’s cold skin.

Abruptly she released the other woman and stepped away, gagging. She collapsed onto the ottoman, cradling her head in her hands as she studied the floor between her feet.

What were the odds the concierge would be able to procure her a machete?

She spluttered, caught somewhere between a laugh and sob. She scrubbed her hands down her face and raised her gaze to stare at Jezebel again. Okay. What were her options?

Jack’s voice rang in her head. “_A shotgun blast to the head? That’s trouble. Fire? That’s **real** trouble. And you happen to catch a sunrise? That’s it – it’s all over.”_

A shotgun was out of the question – not only did she not have one in her possession, the noise of the shot would bring the entirety of the night staff running. Fire could spread, endangering the sleeping humans that surrounded her. A sunrise… Her gaze shifted to the heavy curtains.

A sunrise didn’t take any effort at all.

She dragged Jezebel to one of the windows that still possessed its curtain ties. She made sure the stake was still stuck fast in her chest, then tied the curtains back as far as they would go. A cursory search of the suite revealed the _Do Not Disturb_ sign in one of the nightstand drawers; she hung it on the doorknob as she exited the room and dropped the keycard down the laundry chute before heading for the building’s stairwell. She exited the Empire Arms by a side door, drawing the hood of her jacket up around her face to ward off the spitting rain. Then she turned in the direction of her haven and tried not to think too heavily on her steadily rising body count.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried, with mixed success, to maintain a somewhat reliable schedule of updates, but I'm going to have to take a brief break from this fic. I'm hoping no more than a month, six weeks at the longest, but that will largely depend on outside factors. I'd like to say thank you to everyone who's taken the time to read this work and leave comments and kudos. A special thanks to beehoony and boattatto for their continual feedback and support. <3

“And you’re certain you’ve never seen this symbol before?”

Sebastian rested his fingers atop the flyer and studied the childe’s face. It wasn’t as drawn as it had been the night before, nor did her gaze flinch from his. The lines of tension around her eyes and mouth had eased. Her attempt to project an air of opaqueness was perhaps a touch too obvious, but was undeniably preferable to the shattered creature she’d appeared at their last meeting.

Madison shook her head. “No, but I left a copy with the Anarchs last night. They’re canvassing the neighborhoods they still control – hopefully they’ll have found something by the time I arrive.”

His mouth twisted at the reminder that the rabble still clung to portions of the city, but he bit back his scathing rejoinder. He’d given her full dispensation to carry out this investigation as she saw fit; it would hardly be productive to snarl at her over circumstances beyond her control.

“Very well,” he said, sparing another glance at the gaudy image before he pushed it back across the desk toward her. “Give my regards to the Anarch community.”

She folded the paper and shoved it absentmindedly into the pocket of her jacket. “You haven’t told me about the aura I saw.”

His lip curled. “Ah. Yes. Tell me, what have you been told of diablerie?” She blinked, no recognition in her expression. “Amaranth?” Still nothing. “I suppose I should feel relieved no one has felt the need to broach the subject with you,” he said dryly.

She frowned, impatience bleeding through the cracks of her attempted detachment. “I don’t – ”

“Patience, Miss Langford. I’m coming to it.” She pursed her lips, but fell silent. “The black streaks you observed betray a diablerist – one who has drained another kindred’s vitae to the point of Final Death and consumed their soul. It is an act punishable by death in civilized society.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, disgust and a faint echo of grief wavering in her voice. “Why would anyone…?”

“It’s said to bring pleasure greater even than that of the Kiss; the Sabbat use it freely as a way to increase their own power.” She shuddered and glanced away. He tapped a finger against his desk as he studied her profile. “You mentioned you were able to sway her with your disciplines.”

She blinked, seeming to gather her thoughts before she turned back to face him. “Not for very long – just a question or two.”

“I see.” It shouldn’t have been possible at all. Liam had been, at best, a member of the twelfth generation, and the childe wasn’t even a week old. He considered a moment before he allowed the merest hint of his own Presence to fill the air between them. “Have there been any others you’ve been able to sway?”

She shrugged, seeming unaware of his subtle manipulations. “Humans. One or two shovelheads when I was sneaking through the warehouse in Santa Monica.”

His gaze drilled into hers. “Tell me if you’re lying.”

“No, sir,” she said automatically.

Surely the man wouldn’t have sunk so low. Sebastian grimaced and pressed a hand over his eyes. He should’ve staked him to an east-facing wall at the first hint of his treachery.

“Are you all right?”

He let his hand drop back to his side and looked at her. She was regarding him with apprehension, no doubt wondering what his sudden shift in mood meant for her. He remembered that expression well – it had stared back at him from the lenses of his sire’s spectacles more times than he could count.

_“Vous apprendrez votre place, chien.”_

Sebastian’s hand twitched, but his voice was steady. “Fine, thank you.”

She watched him for another few seconds before she nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll head out. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“A moment,” he said before she could do more than half-rise from her chair. She sank back into her seat with a puzzled frown. Her eyes widened at the sight of the cell phone he withdrew from a drawer and passed over to her. “I would prefer you not have to depend on chance should the need arise.” Even without the eerie speed at which she seemed to be mastering her disciplines, she was quickly becoming his most capable agent; it only made sense to ensure he had a direct line of communication to her at all times.

“Wow. Thank you.” She flipped it open, studied the screen and immediately began to adjust the settings. He tried not to roll his eyes.

“I hope you find it to your liking.” She hummed distractedly, fingers dancing across the keypad. His gaze caught on the nearly-healed skin of her hand. “Miss Langford.” She tore her gaze from the phone to meet his eyes again. “Exercise caution in pursuing the leaders of this cult. They will undoubtedly be older and more powerful than the kindred you encountered last night; if they’re practitioners of diablerie, there’s no telling to what other depths they’ll sink.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “And Nines has already promised backup to ‘beat them so hard their Antediluvians feel it.’” Her fingers curled in quotation marks in the air between them. “Damsel’s words. Not his.”

“Mm.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

He frowned at her. “My lack of confidence in Mr. Rodriguez’s word is well-founded.”

She hesitated, searching his expression. “Is there really no way you guys can co-exist in the same city?”

“That’s largely dependent on their actions.”

“But they’re helping me,” she argued. “Couldn’t that be, like, the beginning of an armistice?”

He bit back a sigh. “For the last time, Miss Langford: there is no war between the Camarilla and the Anarchs. They’re assisting you to rectify a mess they helped create through their own inattentiveness because it’s become a threat to their existence. See how friendly they remain once the plaguebearers are dead.”

She dropped her gaze back to the phone’s screen, eyes troubled.

“_Tsk_. One should be wary of snakes with silver tongues.” A kindred shouldered their way through his office door. The fledgling startled and spun in her seat; his sheriff stiffened and looked to him for his reaction. “Parseltongues? Pah – truth from liars always muddies the waters.” They paused just past the threshold, planting their hands on their hips and studying his office with pursed lips.

Sebastian rose from his seat, struggling to keep his tone civil. “Mx. Declan. I believe our meeting was scheduled for – ”

“Yes, yes,” they interrupted, waving their hand as if trying to whisk away a troublesome gnat. “But time is fleet of foot and this one is here now.”

Madison glanced back at him, utterly bewildered. He smiled thinly. “Please excuse us, Miss Langford.”

She nodded, tucking the cell phone into her pocket before she started toward the door. The Malkavian grabbed her arm as soon as she came within reach. “Take care not to believe everything you hear, childe. His smile is full of poison. Such wicked webs – spiders!” They shuddered and dropped the fledgling’s arm. “Nuke ‘em all from space if you ask me.”

“Of course,” she said politely, sliding around the kindred. “Have a lovely evening.”

The door clicked shut. “Please,” LaCroix said, indicating the seat Madison had recently occupied. He studied the Malkavian as they strode forward. They’d been Embraced early in life, their face retaining the soft roundness of youth. Half their head was shaved; black hair hung lankly to their shoulder from the other. Silver chains hung from the multiple piercings in their ears, mouth and nose, tinkling softly as they moved. More silver circled their neck, hands, and wrists; a large, ornate cross rested between the small swell of their breasts. They were dressed head to toe in unadorned black.

They came to a halt in front of his desk, crossing their arms across their chest. “This one prefers to stand.”

“As you wish.” He took his seat, smoothing a hand down his tie. “May I ask how you circumvented my security?”

“This one told him a funny joke. He laughed and laughed until he screamed.”

He suppressed a grimace. “I see. Is he – ”

“This one harmed only his stomach.”

“I appreciate your restraint,” he said. “I must say, I was surprised to receive your email – Grout’s condition has not been – ”

“One cannot hide truth from a madman.” He glanced at them sharply. They stared back with mismatched eyes – the right was a muddy, indeterminate color somewhere between brown and green, the left a pale, almost colorless blue. They smiled toothily. “Be at peace, Golden Prince – this one cares not for the snakes in your garden, nor the demons in your bed.”

“I see,” he said shortly. He reclined in his seat, steepling his fingers. “What do you care about, Mx. Declan?”

“This one has just one request. Behest? Demand. Your blood slave keeps a Caitiff fledgling locked away awaiting a trial that will never come – this one would claim him.”

“Impossible. He violated the Masquerade.”

“The impossible remains so only until it happens. You will give him to me.”

“Will I?” He arched a brow, studying their mismatched gaze. “And why would I do that?”

“Because this one knows your ambitions. They will mouth your words and echo your edicts whenever asked – and when it amuses them!” They snickered. “This puppet prefers to know who holds their strings.”

“And your only stipulation is the freedom of a sireless whelp?”

Their eyes narrowed. “He is – was? – will be my childe. His freedom is this one’s only condition.”

“Mm.” He inclined his head, considering. “There are others who might have an interest – ”

“The remaining daughter of Janus will be satisfied with a fiefdom of her own,” they interrupted, their tone edging toward impatience.

He smiled tightly. “You seem to have an answer for everything, Mx. Declan. And the fact that you own no property nor claim any domain in the state…?”

“This one will soon inherit the burnt-out shell of Grout’s mansion.” They shrugged and fixed him with a sly grin. “He always was this one’s favorite uncle.”

That must have taken a great deal of string-pulling and swapping of favors. Interesting. “There aren’t many Malkavians in Los Angeles at present. Have there been any objections to your proposal among your clan?”

They shrugged again. “This one hasn’t returned to dust. And the whispers haven’t said anything nasty to hurt their feelings. This one supposes that’s approval.”

“Very well,” he said, reaching out to straighten a pile of paperwork. “I’ll convene the primogen and – ”

“One should let sleeping ancients lie.”

He lifted his head to find their gaze unfocused, unblinking, but still giving the uncanny impression they were peering straight into his skull and unearthing the secrets therein. “I’m sorry?” he said, tone a touch sharper than he’d intended.

They blinked and seemed to come back to themself. “Ah. Did this one speak truth?” they asked, taking in his expression.

“I suppose,” he said carefully.

“Then this one hopes their words were clear.”

Disquiet crawled through his marrow, but LaCroix only beckoned the sheriff forward. “Escort Mx. Declan to their childe.” His next words were aimed at the Malkavian. “From this moment forward, the neonate is your responsibility. I will be most displeased if I find him in my court again.”

A thin-lipped smile was their only acknowledgment of the blunt warning. “Good evening, Golden Prince.” They turned and followed the Laibon out of his office.

He tried to return to his work once they were gone, but his mind wouldn’t settle.

_“One should let sleeping ancients lie.”_

They couldn’t have been referring to the sarcophagus. It was ridiculous, unthinkable. He passed a hand over his eyes before he rose restlessly to his feet and paced to the windows, glowering down at the city.

Whatever rested within the sarcophagus, it paled in comparison to what the artifact itself had come to represent to the kindred of L.A.

In life, he’d fought for an emperor. His reward had been a panicked rout through enemy territory, the dogs of the _Coalition_ nipping at his heels and hounding him straight into the grasping hands of his sire, a steer driven to the slaughter. Two centuries later, he stood at the precipice of another battlefield; if he failed, his fate wouldn’t be half so kind.

He would not be routed again.

His phone vibrated in his pocket; a glance at the screen revealed a familiar number.

“Primogen Golden. How may I assist you?”

The Nosferatu chuckled. “Call me Gary, boss. And it’s more about what I can do for you tonight.”

LaCroix shot one final glance toward the horizon before he turned back toward his desk. “I’m listening.”

“You’re going to love this, boss – the kine have released the _Elizabeth Dane_. Your sarcophagus is on the move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Vous apprendrez votre place, chien.”_ = "You will learn your place, dog."


	16. Chapter 16

Madison swiped the keycard through the study collection room’s electronic reader and checked her phone. The truck Larry had procured for her would only go unmissed for another forty minutes – she needed to grab the sarcophagus and be on her way before there were uncomfortable questions. She pushed the door open, then froze as footsteps became audible beyond the secured door at the far end of the hall. They moved with purpose, straight in her direction.

She darted into the room, brain racing as she tried to figure out when she might have been seen. High shelves made a maze of the space; she raced down the tight corridors, gaze sweeping over the carefully marked and cataloged artifacts without really seeing them.

The shelves suddenly opened into a large examination area, and her dead heart plummeted at the sight of the dismantled crate strewn around a squat table. “No no no no no no _no_...” She rushed forward, hoping against hope it had merely been moved, but no – the rest of the space was empty, the sarcophagus absent. “Oh, goddammit. God fucking dammit,” she whispered, tearing her hands through her hair in agitation. Everyone she’d spoken to seemed to know how much the prince wanted the damn thing.

He was going to have an aneurysm.

...Could kindred still have aneurysms?

She was brought back to the present moment by the sound of the room’s door opening and footsteps heading in her direction. She glanced around frantically before she wedged herself into the shallow space between the wall and a rack full of what she assumed were dinosaur bones. They rattled softly; she pressed the air out of her lungs and didn’t inhale again.

The footsteps came to a halt when they reached the center of the room. “Ah. Well. That’s disappointing. You can come out now, young one – the museum’s already lost one of its ancient artifacts, no sense endangering others.”

She slid one eye around the edge of the shelf. “Beckett?”

He regarded her with open amusement. “I’m hardly the boogeyman.”

She managed a strained grin as she squeezed out of the tight space. “What are you doing here?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’m an archaeologist. I think a far better question is what you’re doing here.”

“I was...” She trailed off, gaze drifting to the scattered pieces of the crate.

“Here to steal the Ankaran Sarcophagus,” he finished for her. “Sadly, it appears someone beat you to it. Wouldn’t it have been awkward if we’d walked in while they were still here?”

“I wasn’t – ” She grimaced at his expression and ducked her head. “It was for Prince LaCroix.”

“Well, then – that definitely doesn’t make it theft,” he said dryly. He relented when she didn’t reply. “What I can’t figure out is why anybody would go through the trouble of stealing a box with a very ancient corpse – this city’s not _that_ dull. And I was so looking forward to putting this nonsense about Antediluvians and Gehenna to rest.”

“Gehenna?”

He made an annoyed _tsking_ sound. “Armageddon, doomsday, the end of all kindred. The kind of ridiculous, superstitious stories I came here to debunk. Without the sarcophagus, however...”

“Do you know who could’ve taken it?” she asked, an edge of desperation in her voice.

He tilted his head. “Given the furor it’s caused, every supernatural creature in Los Angeles is a potential suspect, as are most human thieves. I suppose we should make a point of questioning itinerant magicians, as well.”

“Shit,” she muttered.

“Well, as our work here has stolen off into the night, it’s high time we did the same.”

“Wait,” she said, making a grab at the edge of his trench coat as he tried to turn away. “Please. I can’t go back with nothing.”

His brows traveled toward his hairline before comprehension dawned in his expression. “...Ah. The prince? The young ones can be so impatient. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can offer. Holding my coattails hostage isn’t likely to result in any sudden epiphanies regarding the sarcophagus’s location.”

She couldn’t blush any longer without conscious effort, but her expression was appropriately contrite as she let his coat drop. “Sorry. You said the sarcophagus contained an ancient corpse.”

“Yes?”

“What do you think it is, if it’s not an Antediluvian?”

He tutted in disapproval. “So young and already so steeped in superstition. The Camarilla must not be toeing the party line that stringently these nights. My guess, from what I’ve read about it, is that it’s a mummified Mesopotamian king. I came here tonight hoping to confirm it.”

“But why would kindred care this much about a human mummy?”

“Kindred and kine believe a lot of strange things. The Camarilla denies the tales of Antediluvians and Gehenna contain any truth, but stories have power. How many kine pray to deities they’ve professed not to believe in when facing death? And a person doesn’t have to believe in something to use it to take advantage of others’ fears.”

She rubbed at her forehead in frustration. “Y’know, somehow I thought dying would be simpler.” Beckett chuckled. “So the prince is trying to, what – lock down the sarcophagus before it can cause any more panic?”

“A bit of advice, young one – it’s best not to speculate on why a prince does anything.” Then, with a nod and a smirk, he was gone.

She cast a last disgruntled glare at the empty table before she followed, her Auspex allowing her to avoid the security personnel with ease until she stood on the street once more. She rubbed her hands against her face, trying to force her brain to come up with a plan. Nothing came to her. With a groan, she turned and jogged to the alley where she’d left Larry’s truck.

Her phone rang as she stepped into the truck’s cab. Her stomach twisted in on itself – there was only one person who had the number. She’d been hoping to be able to put this conversation off. “Prince LaCroix.”

“Miss Langford.” He sounded annoyed. “Once you have the Ankaran Sarcophagus safely in hand, you are to come directly to Venture Tower to speak with the primogen.”

Her throat closed. “I didn’t – I can’t – ”

“Enough,” he snapped. “My nights are plagued with insignificant, time-consuming trivialities. So when I assign you a simple task, I only want to hear unbridled vehemence on your part. Is that understood?” There was a short silence; she could picture him grinding his teeth. “You have one hour.” The line went dead.

She dropped the phone into her lap and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Great. He was already pissed about something, and she didn’t have his stupid coffin.

How far could she get in an hour?

Not far enough.

She blew out a heavy sigh and headed back toward the heart of downtown.

-

“Oh, hey there, snack ca – uh, Ms. Langford. You just, uh, you just head right on up. Mr. LaCroix’s expecting you.”

Madison smiled wanly at the security officer. LaCroix and, apparently, the entire primogen council. “Thanks, Chunk.” He returned the smile before turning back to his Bavarian cream. She had the sudden, irrational urge to ask for a bite – would it taste the same as she remembered? Would she even be able to keep it down?

He glanced up at her when she didn’t move. “Oh, I know that look, yes ma’am,” he said with a chuckle. “Wanna take one for the road?”

She weighed the chance to indulge her curiosity against the chance of vomiting Bavarian cream all down her front in the presence of the primogen. “Thanks, Chunk, but I’m on a diet. Liquids only.”

“One of them juice cleanses, eh? I’ll never understand you kids,” he said good-naturedly.

“Yeah, me neither,” she muttered, starting toward the elevators again.

The sheriff loomed, silent and menacing, outside the penthouse office’s door. He uncrossed his arms from his massive chest as she approached, inclining his head before he turned and held the door open for her. Her insides quailed as every head in the room turned to look at her.

The primogen were arrayed around the comfortable seating area before the fireplace, long-stemmed glasses of blood in their hands – all but Strauss, whose hands were folded behind his back. Mx. Declan’s multitude of piercings and jewelry were absent, only the ornate cross still hanging from their neck. A kindred who could only be a Nosferatu arranged his features into an expression she wasn’t sure was meant to be a grin or a sneer and gave her a little wave. LaCroix stood a little apart, no hint of the pique he’d let slip in their earlier communication in his bearing; his face was an opaque mask. “Miss Langford,” he said, inclining his head toward her. “Thank you for joining us.”

She bobbed her head back, tried for a smile that died almost immediately. “Of course.”

“For God’s sake, LaCroix!” The tall, handsome kindred she remembered from her last glimpse of the primogen council sighed theatrically in dismay. “What is the childe _wearing_? That outfit is a travesty!”

The prince’s inflection didn’t waver. “Miss Langford, Araldo Martín, Toreador primogen. The childe’s clothing is entirely appropriate for the tasks I have had her engaged upon this evening, Primogen.”

“The childe’s attire is hardly the matter most worthy of discussion,” the woman standing over Martín’s left shoulder snapped.

“Demetria Cambridge, primogen for clan Ventrue,” LaCroix said. “You’ve met Primogen Strauss and Primogen Declan.” Madison nodded dutifully to each kindred; Strauss inclined his head gravely; Mx. Declan fixed her with a kind smile. “This is Gary Golden, primogen for clan Nosferatu.”

“We’re going to get along famously, boss,” Gary purred, eyes hard.

“Primogen, esteemed kindred – my childe, Madison Langford.” She was saved from an awkward curtsy when he motioned her forward; she marched mechanically toward the gathering until she stood before the semi-circle they had arranged themselves into.

“Stop _glaring_, Demetria, you’re going to frighten the poor thing,” Martín clucked reprovingly.

His fellow primogen shot him an arch look. “If we could proceed?”

“This one agrees to the proposed course of action,” Declan announced.

“There hasn’t been an agreed upon course of action, Mx. Declan,” Strauss said.

They shrugged. “Then they will. Bicker all you like, this one cares not.” They took a dainty sip from their glass, their gaze never leaving Madison’s face.

“If the council will permit me?” LaCroix interjected. He waited until the assemblage nodded. “The matter before us is a grave one. You have asked for the fledgling’s eyewitness testimony and I have acquiesced. In the interest of not wasting any more of the evening, please ask your questions.”

Strauss stepped forward, peering at her over the rims of his spectacles. “Good evening, neonate.”

She bobbed her head. “Primogen Strauss.”

“Tell me, do you know why you have been summoned here to speak with us?”

“Um...” She tried not to fidget or glance at LaCroix. “No? Sir.”

He seemed to find her answer satisfactory; he nodded and his lips turned up in the barest hint of a smile. “It is my understanding you were present at Grout’s mansion the night of his unfortunate...accident.” Her eyes did dart toward LaCroix then, but the Ventrue only stared back impassively. “There’s no need for alarm, Miss Langford. We have summoned you here to discuss that eventful night. And the presence of Armando ‘Nines’ Rodriguez at that time.”

“He didn’t do it,” Madison blurted.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Strauss said smoothly. “Choose your words well, neonate, if you wish to defend him. Now.” He shepherded her toward one of the high-backed chairs. “Shall we begin?”


	17. Chapter 17

LaCroix watched as Strauss guided the childe to one of the empty chairs. She was undisguisedly distressed – he had the clear impression that were it still possible, her face would be an unhealthy shade of green. No one could accuse her of art or artifice in this matter. Hopefully, that would be enough. He circled the edge of the gathering until he stood behind the chair she half-sank, half-collapsed into; he would not be accused of coaching her responses to the inquiries directed at her. He saw each of the primogen mark the positioning, but he only gazed back and waved a hand to indicate the interrogation could begin.

“If you would, Miss Langford, I would like you to walk us through what you experienced at Grout’s mansion,” Strauss said.

The fledgling’s hands locked around one another in her lap – an irritating tell he would have to drum out of her once it had outlived its usefulness. “Prince LaCroix asked me to visit Primogen Grout to make sure he was all right. He said no one had heard from him and everyone was worried. When I got to the house, Nines was leaving.”

“You saw him exit the mansion?” Demetria asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Um...” LaCroix could picture the crease of the fledgling’s brow as she tried to remember the details of that night. “He was coming down the porch stairs.” Demetria began to tap a nail against her glass. “H-He spoke to me, said the place was bad news and that I needed to get out of there, and then he left.”

“To where?” Demetria pressed.

The childe’s effort to keep from curling in on herself was palpable. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem important at the time; I didn’t pay that much attention. I’m sorry.”

Strauss stroked his chin with one gloved hand, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “Did Mr. Rodriguez appear to be in control of his faculties? Did he seem himself?”

Madison shifted in her seat. “He seemed...strange. Off. I can’t really explain it, but he didn’t sound like himself.”

“Perhaps he chose to be somebody else,” Bellamie remarked with a sly smile.

“Heh.” Gary’s face split in a hideous grin. “Does anyone else think it’s strange we even have to have this little song and dance? Rumor has it every Malk in the city knows who really killed our old pal Grout. Heard it through the grapevine, if you will.” His fingers fluttered meaningfully through the air.

The Malkavian’s expression turned almost as ugly as the Nosferatu’s. “Grout killed Grout,” they snapped. LaCroix tensed, but they reined themself back in with enviable finesse. “He never could understand that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” they finished with a shrug.

“Thank you, Mx. Declan, that’s very helpful,” Demetria said shortly.

“For pity’s sake, can we at least pretend we remember how to behave in a civilized fashion?” Martín cast a reproving look at his fellow primogen. “Miss Langford, I am appalled that this has been your introduction to our council. Speaking for myself, I would very much like to better make your acquaintance once this unpleasantness is behind us. For now, please bear with this boorishness. Now: you saw the Anarch on the grounds. He seemed strange when you spoke to him. This is correct, yes?” He looked to LaCroix when she nodded. “The Brujah are a clan given to reckless, impulsive acts. What other reason would Mr. Rodriguez have to visit a primogen of the Camarilla? I approve the Blood Hunt.”

“But – !” LaCroix laid a restraining hand on the childe’s shoulder. She glanced up at him, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and anger.

“As do I,” Demetria said, shooting an annoyed glare at Martín.

“I oppose,” Strauss said. “The evidence is distressingly thin: Rodriguez was seen on the grounds, not in the house, and covert assassination is hardly characteristic of his otherwise highly public censure. I am surprised you would suggest otherwise, Prince LaCroix.”

LaCroix didn’t allow a muscle of his face to betray him. “I’ve made no accusations. I conveyed the information I was given and brought my childe to answer your questions as requested. _Someone_ killed Grout, and the Final Death of a primogen cannot go unanswered.”

“A shame all the evidence was lost in that fire,” Gary said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “Funny how it’s just your fledgling’s word Nines was there at all.”

LaCroix was unsure if the emphasis on _your fledgling_ was deliberate or if he was simply reading too far into the Nosferatu’s tone. He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the kindred with careful impartiality. “You can thank Bach for the blaze that destroyed Grout’s mansion. Miss Langford barely escaped with her life.”

“Mm, that’s getting to be a habit of hers,” Gary said dryly. “How do we know Bach wasn’t the one to pull the plug on Grout?”

“He didn’t know Grout was dead,” Madison said. Tightly leashed emotion flowed just below the words. “He was still trying to find him when we stumbled over each other.”

“And yet he didn’t kill _you_,” Gary noted, making a show of straightening his cuffs. “You live a charmed unlife, boss.”

“She was nearly burned alive,” LaCroix pointed out, allowing a hint of annoyance to bleed into his tone.

“This one believes we are straying from the point.”

“Yes, thank you, Mx. Declan,” Strauss said. He spread his hands to encompass the gathering, the very picture of reasonable authority. “We cannot declare a Blood Hunt on so little. It will be viewed as a declaration of war by the Anarchs.”

“You would let the man’s murder go unpunished?” LaCroix challenged coolly.

“I would obtain incontrovertible proof of the Anarchs’ involvement, if it exists. Without it, any accusation will be met with allegations of Camarilla scheming. If even your own childe protests Rodriguez’s innocence, how do you imagine you will convince the rest of the city of his guilt?”

It was all slipping away from him, spinning beyond his control. If he called a Blood Hunt with anything less than a unanimous vote of the primogen, it would be his head alone for which the Anarchs sharpened their pikes. His rule rested on sand; until he controlled the sarcophagus – or whatever power rested within it – he couldn’t afford to antagonize even these fair-weather allies. Bellamie met his eyes for a moment, seeming to read the growing frustration behind them before they smiled. “There is a way for Rodriguez to have been present and yet not at fault.”

“Who could possibly benefit from framing the man for such an act?” Demetria asked waspishly.

The Malkavian shrugged. “Who benefits if the Anarchs and the Camarilla weaken one another with petty wars?”

Strauss’s expression grew thoughtful. “Yes, I see your point, Mx. Declan. It was only fear of a unified Camarilla-Anarch front that kept them complacent this long – if they have learned how contentious our relationship remains, it could have emboldened them.” LaCroix ground his teeth at the undisguised censure in the regent’s tone.

“What _are_ you going on about?” Martín huffed.

He took the path that had been opened to him. “The Tong have been buying up munitions by the crate-full these past nights. And it’s rumored there are those among the Kuei-jin who can change their shape at will.” He would’ve preferred, for personal reasons, it be Rodriguez’s head on the chopping block, but this could suit his purposes just as well. The Toreador sobered immediately. Indeed, it seemed for a moment as if all the air had been sucked from the room; he imagined they might have heard a pin drop at the far end of the hallway.

“We knew the peace couldn’t last forever,” Demetria said finally, setting her glass aside with a smart click. “If the devils hope to drive us to war with one another, we must disappoint them.”

“Extend the rabble an olive branch?” Martín sounded positively scandalized.

“They, at least, are kindred,” LaCroix said. “And the enemy of my enemy...”

“Is only sometimes a friend,” Strauss finished. “I must advise caution, my prince. A rashly extended hand could be just as injurious as a rashly declared Blood Hunt.”

“Enough,” LaCroix said. “This is, as Primogen Strauss has pointed out, all conjecture – let us wait to see who betrays themselves with their next move. I thank you all for your attendance, but this meeting is adjourned.”

It wasn’t the outcome he’d hoped for, but it was salvageable. A seed had been planted. He ignored the mute look of appeal the childe aimed at him as he abandoned the chair and stalked toward the windows. Behind him, the primogen departed in a rustle of clothing and heels against marble flooring; his sheriff stepped back into the room once the last of them had exited the floor.

The fledgling’s reflection appeared in the glass behind him. Her arms were wrapped uncertainly around her middle – another holdover from her mortal life that would need to be corrected in the fullness of time. “Now you begin to see,” he said, keeping his eyes on the lights of the city. “Each minor problem like a grain of sand, each night I inherit the desert. My would-be advisers are a group of malingering mollycoddles devoted first and foremost to the security of their own skin. At least I can rest easy knowing that you have relieved me of one encumbrance tonight.” He turned to face her. “Do you need assistance bringing the sarcophagus up to my office?”

The childe’s expression grew even more strained, but her gaze didn’t flinch from his. “I don’t have it. It was gone when I got there; Beckett says it was stolen.”

For a moment, his mind seemed incapable of absorbing the words. She had been infallible; every task he’d set before her she’d accomplished. It was inconceivable that she had failed him now, when so much depended on her success. “Stolen?”

She looked as if she would’ve preferred running back into Grout’s burning mansion at top speed over having to confirm his incredulous question. “Stolen.”

Comprehension crashed over him with crushing force. For the first time in decades, he remembered the clawing sensation of panic in his throat. “_Stolen_?! How? Who would…?” He was only peripherally aware of the childe shrinking in on herself as she unconsciously tried to make herself a smaller target. His mind raced, trying to find the weak link, the detail he had overlooked –

He wasn’t so old that he’d forgotten the sensation of the air being knocked from his long-desiccated lungs. “Oh...Gary. Gary, you treasonous maggot!”

“Gary?” Her eyes widened. “Gary the – ?”

“Nosferatu primogen, yes,” he said shortly. He brought himself back under control with effort. One could never be certain when the Nosferatu were watching; Gary would no doubt have reveled in his momentary loss of composure. “I should have realized he was asking too little for his assistance.” His Beast was agitated, snapping and snarling in the back of his mind. He began to pace in an effort to distract himself from the increasingly attractive options it whispered to him.

“What do you – ?”

“I want him found!” he spat. “I want him...” _Staked and left for the dawn. Torn into pieces until he succumbs to torpor. Taught what it means to oppose the Clan of Kings._ He grit his teeth and forced the Beast back down. “Found. He thinks he’s merely embarrassed and inconvenienced me, but the sarcophagus could be...exploited...causing who knows what catastrophe to this city. If it were to fall into the wrong hands...”

There was a weary resignation in her voice. “How do I find him?”

He drew himself up short and turned to study her. She still stood with her arms curled protectively around her middle, shoulders hunched, yet her bearing reminded him of nothing so much as a soldier awaiting orders. An unexpected warmth bloomed in his chest. He took the few steps necessary to close the distance between them and cupped her elbows in his hands.

“Don’t think I’m unaware or unappreciative of the impossible things you have already accomplished.” He was under no illusions – she remained only because she had nowhere else to go. Even so… “Once this is over there will be more time, to be used however you wish.”

She didn’t return his smile. “Say you get the sarcophagus. What then? You can’t rule a people that don’t want to be ruled.”

His expression hardened. “You’ve been spending too much time with the Anarchs.” He let his hands drop and stepped away from her.

“Why are you here, sir?” she asked quietly, holding his gaze. “What’s it all for?”

He lifted his chin, glaring down his nose at her. “I am here because the Camarilla willed it. The ‘free state’ is a dream that died in conception; the city has decayed in the rabble’s hold long enough. They are children playing with fire, but the hunters their negligence draw will denounce us all as monsters.”

“So you drive them out, make peace, whatever you intend to do,” she pressed, voice soft but unyielding. “Is that the end of it?”

“The Jyhad is eternal.”

She lowered her gaze, seeming to consider his words before she met his eyes again. “Then with respect, sir, what’s the point?”

He released an incredulous laugh. “The _point_, Miss Langford, is power. Do you wish to remain some Elder’s dogsbody for the next century?”

“Frankly, sir, I’d prefer to be the vampiric equivalent of Switzerland.”

“That too requires power,” he snapped. “The power to stand on your own. I would prefer not to see you throw yourself into the Final Death in pursuit of a pipe dream.”

Her lips thinned. “I’m trying to understand – ”

“I don’t need your understanding,” he said coldly. “I need your obedience. The Nosferatu lurk in the filth below the streets of Hollywood, which is unfortunately lacking in any Camarilla loyalties. Baron Isaac Abrams may know how to contact them but will no doubt insist on a boon in return for the information. Find Gary and get him to talk. That sarcophagus could be used against us. Do not come back until you have it.” His gaze snapped to the sheriff. “Escort her out.”

The childe’s eyes practically sparked with ire, but she didn’t resist when the Laibon settled a large hand on her shoulder. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, Miss Langford.” He turned back to the window, glaring down at the lights of the city long after she was gone.


	18. Chapter 18

Madison made herself walk to the elevators outside LaCroix’s office, teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. It wasn’t forever, she reminded herself. LaCroix himself had stated there would come a time she would be allowed to leave and go her own way. She could endure until then. She would. She’d already witnessed the alternative.

She rode the cab down to the lobby in stony silence, mustering a thin smile and a wave for Chunk as she headed for the door.

When she stepped out into the street she found Knox leaning against the hood of an eminently forgettable late-model sedan parked at the curb; the ghoul uncrossed his arms from his chest and waved at her with a cheery grin. “Hey, girl! Been a couple nights, how you been?”

She fixed him with a flat look before she sighed. “It’s not a good time, Knox.”

“Aw, man, I hear that. Heard the boss’s got you playing courier for the office in Hollywood. Figure the least I can do is offer you a ride, yeah?”

The smile felt brittle on her lips. “Thanks. I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

“You got it, girl.” He flashed her a thumbs-up and slid off the hood. “Hop in.”

She circled the vehicle and sank into the passenger-side seat, fastening the seat belt across her lap. She waited until Knox started the car to ask, “So where are we really going?”

He flashed her a puzzled smile. “Whoa, harsh. What’s with the distrust?”

“What’s with you dodging the question?” she rebutted, picking at her cuticle as they pulled into traffic.

“Bertram said he wanted to see you,” he said with an easy shrug. He glanced over again, gaze tracking across her profile before he turned his eyes back to the road. “But really – you okay? You seem a little...tense.”

She scoffed, keeping her eyes on her hands. “Are all vampires just interested in advancing their own agendas? And don’t try to tell me what a cool dude your master is,” she added at his offended expression.

“Heh. Trouble in paradise already? Say it ain’t so,” a familiar voice rasped from the back seat. Madison startled and twisted to glare over her shoulder, but the seat appeared to be empty. “Sorry, cupcake, but there’s too many eyes to let this mug be seen.”

“Hello again, Bertram,” she said, turning back to face the windshield. “You could’ve let me know you were back there.”

“I could’ve,” he agreed smugly.

“Have I mentioned how much I love the mind games?” she muttered, glaring out the window. “Huge fan, can’t get enough of that shit.”

Bertram chuckled. “Give it a decade or two. It’ll grow on you.”

“I’m sure. Like a fungus.” She propped her elbow against the car door’s windowsill and rested her temple against her fist. “So what’s up?”

“Knox, take the next left,” Bertram instructed. He waited until his directions had been followed to answer her. “A little birdie told me you need to find the Warrens.”

She glanced over at Knox, but the ghoul kept his gaze on the road. “That was quick. I only found out ten minutes ago.”

“I’m good at what I do, fledgling. The prince doesn’t know what he’s sending you in to because Isaac either doesn’t know or can’t afford to look weak by admitting what’s taken up residence in his domain. And Gary’s so busy trying to stick it to LaCroix he’s lost sight of the bigger picture. So, since I have a vested interest in seeing you survive the night, I’m going to get you safely in and out of the Warrens.”

“A ‘vested interest?’”

“I told you – LaCroix doesn’t know what’s down there. If something were to happen to you and he found out I knew what you were walking in to...well, you get the picture.”

“And if I just happen to mention that you helped me...”

“See? You’re a natural. Knox, pull over.”

Knox nodded and maneuvered the car to the curb. Madison glanced around with a small frown. They were idling next to an alley between a shuttered warehouse and a darkened pawn shop. “I thought the Warrens were below Hollywood.”

“They are,” Bertram said. “I might like you, kid, but you’re not family and I’m not showing you the front door. We go this way or not at all.”

Knox glanced at her, his hands still on the wheel, apparently waiting for her response. “One night,” she told him, “just _one_ night, I want to remember what it feels like to be bored.”

He grinned. “To each their own.” They exited the vehicle; Knox pulled open the back door as Madison circled the hood. “Lemme just grab my – ” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “How’d you let me forget my bag, man?”

Bertram’s breath ghosted against her ear. “Down the alley.”

“Aw, hell,” Knox continued to complain good-naturedly, “I’ll catch up with you later, girl. You have a good night. Stay safe.”

She managed a genuine smile. “You, too, Knox. Stay safe.”

The ghoul nodded, sinking back behind the wheel as Madison turned and strolled into the alley. She walked slowly, wary of tripping over an invisible Nosferatu. She needn’t have worried; Bertram dropped his Obfuscation at the rear corner of the warehouse. The kindred’s face was shadowed by an over-sized hood, but she caught a glimpse of his inhuman eyes before he beckoned for her to follow and rounded the corner.

She followed to find him crouched beside a manhole, holding the heavy cover open with one hand. “Let’s take a walk, cupcake.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought he looked impressed when she only nodded and began to descend the ladder. It wasn’t her first foray into the city’s sewers.

Thankfully, it appeared Bertram intended for them to take the storm drains – the air was damp, a bit musty, but that was the extent of it. He followed her down, slotting the manhole cover back into place and plunging them into darkness. His shoes splashed down into the shallow water beside her before the beam of a flashlight stabbed through the blackness. She winced at the sudden brightness, belatedly throwing up a hand to try and shield her eyes. When she’d managed to blink the phantom images away, she found the Nosferatu patiently holding the flashlight out to her, his face under-lit like a ghoulish Halloween mask by the beam.

“Thanks,” she said. He nodded and extended a small white object out to her; she took it with a frown. “Chalk?” She glanced up to find empty air occupying the space the Nosferatu had so recently filled. “Bertram?!”

“Relax, fledgling.” His voice sounded from the place she’d last seen him. “Current behavior aside, Gary’s not a fool. He’s going to have someone tail you out of the Warrens. I can’t risk stumbling over some poor neonate just following orders, so I won’t be accompanying you for the round trip. You can mark the route back with that. If you want to curry a little favor, you’ll wipe ‘em away on the return trip.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “But why are you invisible now?”

“Mitnick’s got the tunnels around the Warrens wired for surveillance. Gary’ll know a Nos led you to his back door, but he’s not going to know it was me. Understand?”

She sighed and glanced around at the darkness stretching away in both directions. “Got it. Just tell me which way to point the flashlight.”

He chuckled. “Thattagirl. Head left.”

She did, dragging her feet through the water and splashing more than was necessary to try and hide the tell-tale ripple of the Nosferatu’s footsteps beside her. Bertram provided whispered instructions at each intersection they came to, and Madison left a path of carefully chalked white arrows in their wake.

She had no idea how long they’d been walking or where they were in relation to the surface streets when Bertram’s voice sounded urgently in her ear. “Freeze. Cover the light. Do not move.” His tone brooked no argument; she froze and cupped her palm over the flashlight’s warm casing. They were instantly swamped in gloom, her eyes straining to give the darkness around them definable forms. She turned her head in the direction of his voice and mouthed, _What?_ Then she heard it.

From somewhere in the darkness ahead came rasping, labored breaths...and the sounds of something large moving through the shallow water. Bertram must have noticed the way she tensed, because his voice sounded in her ear again, so low she had to strain to make out the words. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty much blind. No sound, no sudden movements and we’ll be fine. They’re getting bolder – don’t usually come this far out from their nest.”

She swallowed. Her brain was stuck in a loop, _don’tpanicdon’tfrenzydon’tpanicdon’tfrenzy_, her head still turned toward where she thought the Nosferatu must be. She mouthed, _What is it?_

“Tzimisce abomination. Fleshcrafting. Kine or ghouls reshaped and melded together at their master’s whim.” A small, distressed whine crept up her throat. “Easy, cupcake,” Bertram warned. “You frenzy down here and we’re both dust.” _Don’tpanicdon’tfrenzy_. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to concentrate on counting backward from one hundred.

The sound of multiple limbs splashing through water and slapping against the walls grew closer, the labored breathing bouncing off the sides of the tunnels. The flashlight’s casing cracked in her hand. _D o n ’ t p a n i c…_

The sounds of movement paused for a small eternity, then turned and receded in the direction they had come from. Madison stood, eyes closed, ears straining, until the creature – whatever it was – was no longer audible. Bertram’s voice in her ear made her jump. “You okay, kid?”

She didn’t realize she was trembling until she opened her eyes to find the shielded flashlight beam shaking in her hands. “No.”

“You did good. Think you can walk?” She nodded. “Then let’s head back to the last intersection. Don’t want you running into that thing on the way back.”

A hysterical giggle welled in her throat, but she swallowed it back down. She turned and followed the sloshing of the Nosferatu’s feet through the water. “So are there any other awful things down here I need to know about?” she asked, voice high and shaky. “Any other nice little surprises that might want to rip me apart some night?”

“Well, they’re not down here, but has anyone told you about lupines yet?”

“Lupines? _Werewolves_?” Her voice climbed another octave.

“Guess not,” he muttered.

“You know what? If they’re not down here with us, I don’t wanna know.”

Her shaking gradually subsided as Bertram adjusted their route; by the time they came to an unremarkable door set into the tunnel wall, she felt back in control of herself.

“This is it,” Bertram said from off to her right. “And this is where I leave you, fledgling. Be smart in there. You won’t see many of us, but you’ll definitely be watched. Just...”

“What?”

“Look, you can’t help who your sire was any more than they can, but some of ‘em are gonna hold your clan against you. Just be ready for it.”

“Are there _any_ vampires that actually like each other?” she grumbled.

“Sure, there are,” he said wryly. “I like you just fine, cupcake.”

She huffed a laugh as she laid her hand on the tarnished crash bar. “Thanks. I’ll see you around. Or...” She gestured vaguely in the direction of his voice. “Whatever.” She pushed through the door and stepped into the Warrens.

Public works brick gave way to rough-hewn stone. The tunnels were cool and smelled faintly of damp. Water pooled in rainbow-slicked puddles in low-lying dips and turns, and light sources were as numerous as they were varied: industrial cage lights riveted to the stone ceiling, strung-up fairy lights, garish neon signs that appeared to have been smuggled down from the surface. It all resulted in kaleidoscopic patterns of light painted across the gray walls.

Per Bertram’s prediction, she didn’t see a single Nosferatu, though she was skin-pricklingly aware of the possible hidden eyes surrounding her. The tunnels of the Warrens twisted and branched; hastily constructed make-shift barricades barred easy passage from the main path and herded her with careful deliberation to a pair of beautiful art deco doors, their paint chipped and faded. There was no response to her knock. She edged one of the doors open, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond, but it was only another tunnel that curved away out of sight. “’Come into my parlor,’” she muttered under her breath. “Okay, Gary.”

She stepped through the door. The tunnel led into a chamber roughly twenty feet long, dominated by a large dining table. Two gilded candelabras provided the only light in the room. The table was set with a lavish dinner service, and skeletons dressed in moldering finery sat propped in the dining chairs.

“I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list for the dinner party,” Gary’s voice whispered from the darkened edge of the room. Madison jumped and spun to face empty air. “This wrap party’s cast and crew only, boss.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.

“Hm.” His voice moved, circling slowly around to her left. “Well, I suppose I can set an extra place for an honored guest.”

“That’s...very kind, but I just need to talk to you.”

“We are talking, boss. Maybe while we’re being pals you’d like to tell me how you made your way down here so quickly.”

“Sure. And maybe you’d like to tell me about the Ankaran Sarcophagus.”

She flinched when a low chuckle sounded next to her ear. “You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you? People just love your charisma, your face. And you love that a look is all it takes to make them eat out of the palm of your hand. Oh, boss, where do you think you are?” She swallowed. “Nothing to say? Fine, I’ll tell you where you are – you’re a long way from home, and your prince doesn’t have any domain down here. Tread carefully.”

“What do you want?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

His voice deepened to a growl. “I want to stick your lovely face in a piranha tank; I want to apply an acid glaze to your sculptured body; I want to throw your pocket mirror under a thresher and watch you fetch it.” There was a brief pause; when he spoke again he sounded more composed. “But I’m no butcher. Ask your questions.”

“The Ankaran Sarcophagus wasn’t at the museum.”

“Not my problem, boss.”

“So you lied to the prince?”

“I never lie about work,” he said, sounding offended. His voice began to drift away from her. “Bad for business. The prince moved too slow to secure his prize, that’s all.”

“Too – ” She swallowed a noise that was half incredulous laugh, half groan. “You told someone else where to find it.”

He finally dropped his Obfuscation; from seemingly thin air, he appeared leaning against the edge of the dining table, leering as he shrugged and spread his hands wide. “L.A.’s always been a free market economy. The Camarilla rolling into town doesn’t change that.”

Just one night, she thought grimly. “Who was it? Who else did you tell?”

“That’s not how this works, boss. You want information, you’re going to have to pay for it, same as everybody else.”

“Okay, then. What can I do – aside from sticking my face in a piranha tank – that would be worth a name?”

“Luckily for you, I’m all out of piranha,” he purred. “You up for a trip to Chinatown? One of my agents, Barabus, was there gathering intel on the Kuei-jin, but he hasn’t been calling lately and it’s been breaking my heart. Get him back for me, and I’ll give you what you need.”

“How am I supposed to – ”

“That’s your problem, boss. Barabus’s safety is the going rate for my info.”

She bit down on her growing frustration. “Why did you send him there in the first place? I thought we were at war with the Kuei-jin.”

“It’s called reconnaissance, boss; I heard you stumbled over one of theirs in Santa Monica. And no, we’re not killing each other in the streets at the moment – it’s like the eye of a hurricane right now. Probably best you don’t make those winds blow, if you can help it.”

“Right. March into a place hostile to kindred and start asking around about a captured spy. _Without_ starting a war.”

He shrugged and smiled. “That’s why I deal in information. Politics is the stuff that’ll get you killed.”

“Right,” she said again. “How do I contact you when I – ?”

“You don’t,” he interrupted. “I’ve got your number, boss. Once I receive confirmation Barabus is safe, I’ll call you, tell you everything you want to know about the sarcophagus. Until then, you’ll never know where I am.” He waggled his fingers in a mocking wave. “Toodle-oo.”

Movement in the periphery of her vision drew her gaze for a split second, but when she looked closer, there was nothing there. When her attention returned to where Gary had been reclining against the table, the Nosferatu was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

When Sebastian woke the following evening, it was with a sense of quiet frustration. Removing Nines Rodriguez from the board should have been a simple undertaking. He should have questioned the childe more closely about what she had seen that night; he should have refused the primogens’ request to speak with her. The Kuei-jin were mobilizing for war – they didn’t have the luxury of allowing the Anarchs to continue running wild in the streets, undermining Camarilla authority at every turn, but the primogen preferred to continue playing their petty games rather than addressing the threat.

He showered and dressed with military precision, studying his reflection as he straightened his tie. Let them plot. He was used to being underestimated.

He arrived at his office to find an email from the fledgling waiting for him.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]  
Subject: Update_  
So, ghosts are real. Werewolves are apparently real. Are there any other creatures out of myth and legend walking around L.A. I should be aware of?
> 
> Also: Are we at war with the werewolves? Is Michael Sheen an actual werewolf? I can’t decide if that would be awesome or terrifying.
> 
> Also also: Gary sold the sarcophagus’s location to someone else. He won’t tell me who until I rescue one of his agents from Chinatown. I have no idea how to do that without getting killed. I’m open to suggestions.

So it was true – Gary had sold the sarcophagus out from under him. And thought to command _his_ childe for his own ends. He had to take a moment to rein in his temper before he answered her.

> _RE: Update_  
The prioritization of your message is deeply absurd. Come to the tower and we will discuss the details of your conversation with Gary in person.  
– SL

Her reply was almost immediate.

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]  
RE: Update_  
What’s wrong with my priorities? And you didn’t answer any of my questions.

His eyes narrowed.

> _RE: Update_  
You are testing my patience, fledgling. Yes, werewolves are real. No, we are not at war with them. And I see no reason to fill your head with minutiae not pertinent to your survival during your first nights.
> 
> I expect to see you here in twenty minutes.  
–SL

> _From: Madison Langford [suckhead@sol.vtm]  
RE: Update_  
I’m sorry. I’m not trying to. Thank you for clarifying.
> 
> I’m on my way, sir.

He frowned and deleted the emails before checking the rest of his inbox. There was another message from Strauss, following up on his request for a private meeting, a message from Therese Voerman regarding her re-scheduled charity exhibition in Santa Monica, and a memo from Tung informing him the television show Bellamie’s childe had mailed the werewolf blood to was planning to film an episode of _Haunted L.A._ at the abandoned Westside Hospital. There were also a dozen emails of a decidedly more mundane nature relating to the management of his corporation. He allowed himself another fleeting wish for a seneschal before he began the thankless motions of another night’s work: Strauss’s request he pushed back another night, Therese’s invitation he accepted, Tung he instructed to watch the film crew and be ready to rescind their filming permits at a moment’s notice.

He was slogging through the corporate emails when the knock came at his office door. He didn’t look up as the childe poked her head into the room. “Good evening, sir. You wanted to see me?”

He glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of his screen and was grudgingly impressed to find she’d managed to make the trip in eighteen minutes. “Don’t loiter in the doorway, Miss Langford,” he said shortly.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her before striding across the polished expanse of the floor. On reaching his desk, she sank into one of the chairs across it, fidgeting silently when he kept his eyes on his screen. He ignored her until he’d finished responding to each piece of correspondence; when he finally closed his email and deigned to acknowledge her, her expression had smoothed into a mask of obviously affected detachment. Too obvious. He added it to his growing list of things they would have to work on.

He arched a brow. “Well?”

She took a second to respond; he suspected she was biting her tongue. “I need to sneak into Chinatown.”

“Yes, you intimated as much. Mr. Golden is ransoming the sarcophagus’s location in exchange for the safe return of his agent.” He scoffed as he folded his hands atop his desk. “He intends to send you behind enemy lines while he hides in his filthy sewers. Unfortunately, we have no alternative. Not only is it imperative that we secure the Ankaran Sarcophagus at the earliest opportunity, we cannot leave a fellow kindred in the hands of the Kuei-jin.”

“Why?” She floundered slightly when he fixed her with a cool glare. “It’s just – I don’t understand. Even if they don’t like us, why would the Kuei-jin take prisoners if we’re not at war?”

“We are as unknown to them as they are to us. The Nosferatu are traditionally the information brokers of the Camarilla – if someone wished to know more about our kind, they would be highly valuable informants, willing or otherwise. That they knew enough to prioritize capturing one is concerning.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat. “You think they – ”

“Would torture him to learn about our infrastructure, our comings and goings, our weaknesses?” His smile held no warmth. “We are all aware this manufactured limbo we exist in is finite.”

She winced and glanced to the side. “So what do I do? I can’t march into hostile territory and demand the return of an enemy spy.”

No, she couldn’t. Aside from the obvious dangers, he’d had no contact with Ming Xiao since the night Grout’s mansion had burned to the ground. As far as he was concerned, their fragile, half-formed alliance of convenience was over; if she felt similarly, it would be the height of folly to send the childe to announce her presence in the Kuei-jin’s domain. He busied himself rifling through various folders, searching for the intelligence report he wanted. “I don’t expect you to. Tell me, how did you get Isaac to give you the location of the Nosferatu warrens so quickly?”

Her expression betrayed her confusion at the seemingly random change of subject. “I never made it to Hollywood. Bertram took me through the sewers.”

He slid the folder containing the photographs of her with Tung’s ghoul aside and moved on to another. “Did you mark the route? Could you retrace it if needed?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Bertram said Gary would have someone follow me out and that it was best to wipe the marks away.”

Clan first. It was a sentiment he understood, even as it stymied him. “Regrettable, but what’s done is done.” He found the folder he wanted, flipped to the appropriate report and slid it across the desk toward her. “This is Jiàn Yŭ Huáng, though he goes by Johnny.” She picked up the photographs, studying the candid shots of the mortal’s face. “He’s the leader of the Tong, a criminal organization in Chinatown that Ming Xiao uses to move weapons and...other assets. The Kuei-jin don’t adhere to the Masquerade as we do – even if he doesn’t know exactly where the Nosferatu is being kept, there’s a high probability he’ll be able to point you to those who do.”

“What’s to stop him from pointing me straight at Ming Xiao?” she asked, shuffling through the photos.

“He’s mortal; you are kindred. Be persuasive,” he said flatly.

“And the Masquerade?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing down the urge to snap at her. “Are you a Brujah? You have subtler means of persuasion at your disposal.” She didn’t reply, but a fang caught at the corner of her bottom lip, anxiety practically radiating from the tense line of her shoulders. Some of his irritation eased. “I won’t pretend there isn’t an element of risk in this,” he said, catching and holding her gaze. “But I wouldn’t send you if I believed the task was beyond your capabilities.”

Her expression didn’t clear, but she nodded stiffly. “Okay. What do I do once I have Barabus’s location?”

“I leave it to your discretion. If you feel it’s feasible, you may pursue the Nosferatu immediately.”

She laid the photographs back on the desk. “Do I have to go in alone?” The question was quiet; her eyes were directed at her hands, rested atop the glossy images of Johnny’s face.

“The fewer kindred we send into Chinatown, the less conspicuous you’ll be.” He tapped a finger against the desk when she didn’t reply, waiting until she glanced up to meet his gaze again to continue. “They’re only mortals. You’ve faced worse.”

She blew out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, and it’s always worked out great for me.” He remained silent, watching her. She grimaced and ducked her head. “Right. Guess I’m going to Chinatown.”

“I’ve asked you to speak freely, Miss Langford.”

She paused in the act of standing, her gaze still fixed on his desk. “Is this all kindred life is?” she asked. “Fighting, scheming, scrambling to acquire power before someone else can take it from you?”

He bit back a sigh. “Sit down, childe.” She sank back into the chair, face averted, and he began to absently straighten the scattered folders he’d rifled through as he considered his words. “Your introduction to this life has been...highly irregular. Little is asked of most childer in their first nights, and the unrest in Los Angeles is hardly typical of most Camarilla domains. That said, power is survival to our kind. Those without it disintegrate into the nights of the past – hundreds of names I knew that once instilled fear are now completely unknown.” He held up a hand to stall her when she frowned. “Even if the only power you desire is the power to be left alone, it’s necessary to play the game just enough to get what you want from it.” Her desire for autonomy was hardly atypical of young kindred, especially those Embraced in these modern nights. In time, she would come to understand the enormity such a yearning encompassed and give up such childish notions. “But the acquisition of power is hardly the totality of kindred life.”

She finally glanced at him, expression torn between skepticism and grudging interest. He set the folders aside and folded his hands in front of him. “Do you remember the Baron of Santa Monica? Miss Voerman has managed to procure replacements for the paintings destroyed by what I’m assured was a particularly malicious vandal –” The childe squirmed guiltily in her seat. “– and has rescheduled her charity exhibition. Have you any interest in attending such an event?”

“I don’t think the Baron likes me very much.” Her tone was dry, her expression wistful.

His mouth curved in a wry smile. “Immaterial. She’s issued an invitation for myself and any guests I choose to bring. I see no reason you should deny yourself a pleasant evening to spare her feelings; I can say with some certainty she wouldn’t extend you the same courtesy. But we can discuss the matter in greater detail later. For now, go and speak with this Johnny. He can typically be found at Glaze, a nightclub in Chinatown. I’ll be waiting to hear what you learn from him.”

She nodded and stood. “All right.”

He waited until she’d left the office to pull the cell phone from his pocket and dial Mercurio.

“Hey, boss.”

“Pull the tail from Miss Langford for the evening,” he said, sliding the photographs of Johnny and the folder they’d come from back across the desk toward him.

“Sure thing. Anything else?”

He swiveled to gaze out at the lights of L.A spread below him. “How are things in Santa Monica?”

“Therese Voerman’s my new best friend.”

“Hardly surprising. And Jeanette?”

“No one’s seen her the last couple of nights,” the ghoul said. “Word is her and her sister got into it and she’s been laying low, waitin’ for everything to blow over.”

“Hm. Tell Tung I want confirmation of her location as soon as possible.”

“Will do.”

“And keep an eye on the neighborhood around the Gallery Noir. Miss Voerman’s associates will be installing her new exhibition in the next day or two - I want to know what other preparations go into the showing.”

“You got it, boss.”

He disconnected the call and turned back to his desk, sweeping the photographs back into the folder. For the first time since his arrival in the city, things were moving, set in motion by his hand. A traitor had been purged from the Tower; the first steps had been taken in the laborious process of ousting the Sabbat. The failure of the Blood Hunt against Rodriguez was a disappointing setback, but not devastating. If the Kuei-jin had indeed captured a Nosferatu, even the primogen would be forced out of their habitual inertia.

He tapped the folder smartly against the surface of his desk before setting it atop the others. He would bring the city to heel yet...and then he would ensure it could never be wrested from his control again.


	20. Chapter 20

Madison stared down at Johnny’s body, mind numb with shock. His blood was spattered across her face, warm and wet. The bullet wounds in her gut stung. His gun fell from her nerveless fingers to land on his chest. When a drop of blood slid into the corner of her mouth, she lapped at it automatically. The taste wrenched her mind into sudden lucidity; she retched and stumbled back, aghast.

“You had to kill him, didn’t you?” She tore her eyes from the gangster’s remains to stare at the wall-mounted screen. The back-lit figure spoke with cool detachment, apparently unfazed by the violence he’d just witnessed. “It’s part of your code of survival – how you cover your tracks, so to speak. And before you attempt to deceive me, you should know I just witnessed you blink across the room and shoot a man in the head...and recorded it.”

“Who are you?”

“Like you, I must protect my true identity,” the figure said. “But I know why you’re here: you’re searching for another of your kind. I have him at my facility. Come to the address displayed on your screen and we’ll...discuss terms of release.” An address materialized at the bottom of the screen. She dug her phone out of her pocket and snapped a grainy photo.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked, tucking the phone away.

“You want proof of life for a being that’s already dead?” She gazed at the screen, waiting. Her ears were still ringing from the proximity of the gunshot; the silence in her chest was absolute. The figure leaned forward far enough to tap at an unseen keyboard, and the image of his silhouette was replaced with a static security feed showing a short hallway, lined with cells. Inside one, behind a partition of what was probably bullet-proof glass, a Nosferatu lay curled on his side, facing the wall. “I trust this is sufficient?”

There was distressingly little to go on – the feed only showed a short length of the hall, giving her no idea where it came from or led to. The Nosferatu – Barabus, she hoped – didn’t move, and curled against the wall as he was, she couldn’t tell if he was injured.

“Well?”

“Yes, all right,” she said. “I believe you.”

“Good. I await your arrival.”

The screen went black. Her gaze was drawn inexorably back toward Johnny. He’d been suspicious, almost hostile, when she first entered the room, and for the first time since her Embrace she’d failed to easily sway a mortal with her Presence. They’d been locked at an impasse – she managing to influence him just enough to convince him not to shout for his enforcer, he refusing to answer any of the questions she tried to ask – when the wall-mounted screen she’d assumed was a television had flickered to life and a shadowy figure had calmly urged the man to shoot her. Startled, she’d let her concentration slip, just for a moment, and everything had gone to hell.

She grimaced and pressed a hand experimentally to her abdomen. She hadn’t fed recently, and her palm came away clean. She turned her attention to her shirt as she closed the wounds. The small grouping of bullet holes in the fabric wasn’t terribly obvious; with luck, no one would notice it.

That just left the gangster’s blood, cooling on her skin.

She raised a hand to wipe at her cheek, staring at the crimson streaks that came away on her fingers. She hadn’t been caught in the grip of unthinking frenzy when she’d closed the distance and grabbed the gun from him. She’d been scared, flooded with adrenaline, but the Beast had only been an impulse, an instinct for self-preservation at the back of her mind when she’d pulled the trigger and decorated the office walls with the man’s brains. Now the scent of blood hung heavy in the air, and her throat felt unbearably dry. She swallowed and wiped her hand on her jeans before scrubbing the rest of the blood off her face with her sleeve.

There wasn’t much, all things considered.

The music from the club downstairs enveloped her as she left the office. Running a hand through her hair, she moved toward the stairwell and descended the stairs two at a time. The bouncer barely glanced at her as she squeezed past. The dance floor was packed, warm bodies moving in a near-hypnotic rhythm in time to the beat pulsing through her. For a moment, she felt a longing to join them so intense she took several steps before she managed to pull herself up short.

All she’d wanted was a night out. A couple hours to dance, have a drink or two, and let the stress of her classes melt out of her neck and shoulders.

She took a deep breath and turned away from the crowd. She was surrounded by criminals who seemed to be inherently hostile to kindred, and one of their own was lying upstairs, dead at her hands – she didn’t have time for the roiling mass of emotions sitting like a rock between her ribs. She found a side door and slipped out into a narrow alley. She took a moment to check the photo of the address she’d taken, then headed toward the street. 

She’d covered half the distance when she pulled the phone back out of her pocket and dialed the only saved number. He picked up on the third ring. “Yes?”

“Price LaCroix. I have Barabus’s location, but there were...complications at Glaze.”

“What sort of complications?”

“Johnny’s dead.” Silence echoed down the line. She wondered if he’d been born with the ability to communicate his displeasure without uttering a sound or if it was a skill he’d cultivated over the centuries. “It was unavoidable. I’m sorry.”

“I see. I’ll do what I can to mitigate any consequences.”

“Thank you, but they know it was me. They had eyes on the club.”

“‘They?’ Who are ‘they?’”

“I don’t know. I’m headed to the address they gave me, so I’ll probably find out soon.”

“Miss Lan – ”

“I’ll send it to you once I hang up.”

“Madis – !”

“Goodbye, sir.” She disconnected the call. The phone rang almost immediately, but she declined the incoming call and forwarded the address she’d received. She gave the phone a small, useless squeeze before she turned it off, dumped it in the nearest public trash can, and continued toward her destination.

Several blocks later, she found the address belonged to a highly stylized but otherwise unremarkable high-rise. It was a building she wouldn’t have looked at twice in life or death; it looked more like the sort of offices where ambitious start-ups came to thrive or die than a prison designed to house kindred.

She studied the edifice from across the street, half-formed plans flitting through her head. She could search for an unlocked door around the side or the back. She could use her Presence on the first mortal on the street she came across, walk in with a human shield.

She could get Barabus and herself killed before she ever found out what she was up against.

In the end, she simply walked through the front doors. Despite the late hour, the reception desk was manned – a young woman of Asian descent looked up from her computer and smiled at her approach. “Good evening,” she said in a tone of bland corporate professionalism. “I was told you might be joining us tonight. Conference room A has been set aside for your use. If you’d please follow me?” Not waiting for a response, the woman stood and began striding off to Madison’s left.

“Uh – um!” Thrown off by the surreality of the situation, Madison floundered for a moment before breaking into a jog to catch up. “I’m sorry – who told you to expect me?”

The look she received over the woman’s shoulder was faintly disappointed. “That’s a rather clumsy ruse – I was told your kind were clever.”

“I’m new at it.”

“So they send children to fight their wars? Perhaps that explains why your friend was so easily captured.”

Madison grit her teeth and remained silent. The woman led her to a spacious conference room; a sign affixed to the wall confirmed that it was indeed Conference Room A. Madison surreptitiously pinched herself as her escort opened and held the door for her. “Here you are. Have a pleasant meeting.”

“Thanks,” Madison muttered, stepping into the room. Immediately, the door was closed behind her, the click of a lock turning loud in the comparative silence. Something cold crawled up her spine, but she made herself step up to the long, polished slab of a table. “I’m here,” she said to the empty air.

A screen at the far end of the room switched on. “So glad you finally decided to show up,” the figure said. There was an arrogance in his voice that hadn’t been present when they’d spoken at Glaze, and the ice spread from her spine to her stomach. “There’s a pair of handcuffs at the foot of the table; put them on and walk through the doors opposite the ones you came in.”

“What? No!”

He talked through her objections, never raising his voice. “The doors behind you are reinforced with steel and have been dead bolted. Not even one of your kind would be able to break through them before we could stop you. If you want to see your companion again, you’ll do as I’ve instructed.” When she didn’t move he angled his face, still shrouded in shadow, toward an unseen screen. “Subject K-02 refuses to comply with given instructions. Recommend further testing to determine if this is a potential side-effect of its condition or a residual personality defect. Tell me,” he said, returning his attention to her, “are you stubborn by nature or instinct? Please, answer honestly.”

“Listen,” she said, vaguely proud that her voice remained steady. “I came here to negotiate the release of the...person in your custody.”

“We both know it’s not a person,” the figure rebutted. “And neither are you. Though you, at least, can pass for one at first glance. I look forward to finding out how your blood differs from its. Now please, put on the handcuffs and walk through the doors.”

The beginnings of panic began to swirl in her gut. She was far from the tower and downtown, and while LaCroix had been forwarded the address of this building, he’d made it clear he was reluctant to send anyone after her.

“Subject K-02 remains uncooperative. Commencing experiment to test capacity for empathy.” His next words were directed at her. “If you continue to refuse to follow instructions, your comrade will be terminated.”

Think. Focus. If she frenzied, Barabus would be killed. She pressed her face into her hands before raking her fingers back through her hair. “Prove he’s not already dead.”

“Comply with the given instructions.”

“Let me see him.”

“Comply – ”

“Fine!” she snapped. She snatched up the handcuffs and closed the bracelets around her wrists. “I did it, okay?”

The silence stretched until the figure bent down and tapped at his keyboard. Once again, the security feed supplanted his silhouette. Nothing appeared to have changed - the Nosferatu was still curled against the wall, still as death. “I assure you I’m a man of my word. If you refuse another instruction, I will kill him.”

“Let him go, if you’re such a man of your word,” she said. “You said you’d let him go.”

“I said we would discuss terms of release,” he corrected, his shadowed visage appearing on the screen once more. “And you have yet to follow all of my instructions. Walk through the doors.”

Her hands clenched into fists, but she set her jaw and moved toward the doors as instructed. They opened just as she reached them, and the man’s voice sounded in duplicate from the screen behind her and the building’s intercom system. “Take the hallway to your left. At the T-shaped corridor, turn right – you’ll find an elevator waiting for you.”

Madison tested the handcuffs as she followed his instructions. Though she’d managed to put holes in her haven walls taking wild swings at Mercurio, there was little give to the chain connecting her manacled wrists. Her stomach dropped as she wondered how long they’d been holding Barabus, and how much they’d managed to learn about kindred as a result.

She entered the elevator without prompting when she arrived at it – the doors closed behind her automatically, and her insides gave an uncomfortable little flip as the cab began to descend. The man’s voice sounded from a hidden loudspeaker: “I have been told you are a rather resourceful individual. This should make you a most intriguing specimen. The Fu Syndicate thanks you for your cooperation in furthering our understanding of your kind. Please, give me everything you’ve got.”

Madison tried the handcuffs again, tugging uselessly against the metal restraints as the elevator continued down into the unknown.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a non-graphic torture scene.

“Madis – !”

“Goodbye, sir.”

The line went dead in his ear. Sebastian redialed immediately, but her phone only rang once before sending him to voicemail. He ground his molars and disconnected the call. The childe was too willful by half. Before he could rise from his seat, his phone buzzed with an incoming message; he opened it to find a grainy photograph – presumably the address she had promised. He frowned as he tried to make sense of the image.

The low resolution impeded the process more than he would have liked, but he finally puzzled out that he was looking at a blurry image of a television screen. A silhouette was barely discernible among the confusion of pixels, and he had to squint to decipher the text that made up the address blazoned across the lower portion of the screen. He grabbed a spare memo pad and copied down the address before his gaze returned to the shadowy figure. This, then, was a member of the mysterious cabal who had been watching Glaze. Sadly, the grainy image meant nothing to him.

He set the phone aside and opened one of his desk drawers, fingers skimming across the neatly labeled files until he found the one he wanted. He plucked it out and laid it across the desk. A flick of the wrist and he was scanning a list of known addresses, business and otherwise, that Ming Xiao had ties to, however tangentially.

The address Madison had sent wasn’t among them.

Frown deepening, he flipped back through the list, but it only confirmed his initial findings. He reached for his phone, dialing the fledgling’s number as he scanned distractedly through the rows of text for a third time. Unease squirmed through his gut when her phone went directly to voicemail. He disconnected the call, fingers drumming against the edge of the desk as he rested his mouth against his fist, considering.

The odds Ming Xiao had no connection to the building the childe was heading to were practically non-existent, yet the Camarilla’s agents had overlooked it in their assessments. It begged the question of what else they had missed...and what sort of danger he’d sent her into, blind.

He forwarded the photo to Tung with terse instructions to send him a complete history of the building’s ownership before he rose from his chair. He prowled restlessly to the windows, then turned and paced back toward the desk. There was an unpleasant, prickling tension beneath his skin; even knowing the childe had turned off her phone, he had the irrational urge to try and contact her again.

When his phone buzzed with an email notification, he opened it immediately, but it was neither Madison nor Tung who had contacted him. 

> _From: [beedee5857@dci.vtm]  
Subject: [none]_  
The childe can’t turn the tide if you allow it to drag her under.

He grimaced. Useless Malkavian insight – what would they have him do? He deleted the message and tucked the phone back into his pocket as he continued to pace. He couldn’t send anyone after her. If he showed the slightest concern for her fate, Ming Xiao would remember and find a way to use it against him.

He could appeal to the Anarchs. Not directly, of course, but the right words whispered in the right ears... Brujah were quick to anger over perceived injustice, and they already blamed the Kuei-jin for MacNeil’s death and Garcia’s subsequent defection. The rumor that the devils were capturing and torturing kindred might be enough to whip them into righteous frenzy. Nines had shown a repeated interest in the childe’s well-being that could be exploited, given the proper allegations reached him. But it would require time and careful manipulation. The childe might well meet her Final Death before such meticulous preparations could bear fruit.

If the worst came to pass…

His jaw clenched. He could easily turn her Final Death into a rallying cry, perhaps even an injury grave enough to sway the Anarchs into an alliance. But the potential she had shown – it would be an unimaginable waste. He abhorred waste.

The phone rang in his pocket.

“Where’d you dig up this address, boss?” Tung asked by way of greeting.

“I didn’t ask for small talk,” LaCroix said testily.

“Mm. So you didn’t. I’m still working on a complete history, but the corporation that owns it now is a shell, a front for the Fu Syndicate.”

“Which is?”

“A gang that used to operate out of Chinatown in the forties. Made the Tong look like kids playing with their daddies’ guns. Haven’t had any real pull for years, but their revenue stream exploded shortly after Ming Xiao dug in and made that Golden Temple her stronghold.”

LaCroix tore a hand through his hair. “What are they moving – money, weapons, drugs?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Tung said with a sniff. “I’ve got Knox digging, but it looks like Xiao’s hemorrhaging money into their operation without any sort of return.” Impossible. The Kuei-jin weren’t so different that LaCroix believed Ming Xiao would pour resources into a mortal organization for sentiment or altruism’s sake alone. “I’ll keep looking,” Tung said, bringing him back to their conversation. “Your fledgling free? A little Presence could move things along in a big way.”

“If you can’t do your job without assistance – ” LaCroix began, voice a low hiss.

“Relax, boss – I’ll get it done. I’ll be in touch.”

The Nosferatu hung up. LaCroix came dangerously close to crushing the phone in his hand before he returned it to his pocket. Always questions, never answers. He checked his watch. Had she arrived at the Fu Syndicate’s building? His gaze turned to the sheriff. “The Kuei-jin agents we detained – are there any who remain...whole enough to interrogate?”

The Nagloper inclined his head. “There is one.” The kindred swept into a bow under his glare before hurrying from the room. LaCroix exhaled deliberately through his nose and paced back to the windows. The suffocating sense of tension persisted. He checked his watch again before glowering out at the lights of downtown.

He was still at the window when the sheriff returned. He turned as the Nagloper hauled a frightened mortal into his office, meeting the man’s wild-eyed glances with stone-faced impassivity. The human’s already-elevated heartbeat accelerated rapidly when LaCroix called on his Presence to flood the office with a primal feeling of dread. 

“I have very little patience at the moment,” he told the man as the sheriff dragged him forward. The prisoner mewled and twisted in the massive kindred’s grip, simultaneously terrified and unable to tear his gaze from the Ventrue. “Why is the Fu Syndicate kidnapping and holding kindred?” The man’s teeth chattered uselessly in his head. LaCroix made a wordless sound of impatience and dampened the fear the kine was reeling from. “Well?”

“I d-don’t know.”

LaCroix studied the mortal with narrowed eyes. He was young, perhaps a year or two older than Madison, with delicate features and shaggy dark hair that kept sliding into his eyes. He stepped forward, into the man’s space, and picked up the stylized letter opener from his desk. “Take it,” he said, extending it out to the kine. The command wasn’t backed by blood, but the man took the implement with a shaking hand. “Good.” He held the agent’s dark gaze as he wrapped his will around his mind. “Stab yourself through the palm as deeply as you can.”

The man had seen behind the curtain of the Masquerade, but he was only human. LaCroix crushed his resistance with his vitae, and the kine’s screams echoed against the high ceiling.

LaCroix waited until the anguished howls tapered into ragged sobs to speak again. “As I said, I have little patience for these games. That’s the kindest punishment you will experience if you continue to refuse – ”

“I don’t know!” the man screamed desperately. “I don’t, I don’t – ” His voice broke and he began to weep quietly, cradling his injured hand and moaning to himself in a language LaCroix was unfamiliar with.

He circled the desk and sank into his chair, steepling his fingers as he considered the man. The kine hung limply from the sheriff’s massive hand, no hint of defiance in him. He could give him to the Tremere. The Warlocks had already scoured his mind, but none of them had known to ask about what was happening under the Syndicate’s purview. While it was probable the man was being truthful, he was loath to put his faith in probabilities when the childe’s fate hung in the balance.

“What do you know?” he asked mildly.

“I don’t...I don’t know anything.” The man’s voice was rough, hollow. “I never heard anything about a Fu Syndicate. I ran messages to Johnny, that’s all.”

“Johnny’s dead.” The human just sagged a little further in the Nagloper’s grip and continued to weep. LaCroix shook his head and turned his gaze to the sheriff. “Silence him and retrieve my letter opener.”

The mortal’s face twisted in horror as the sheriff’s free hand rose to hover at his neck, one clawed finger sinking into the warm skin of his throat. The man’s mouth gaped as the finger flexed and twisted, then the sheriff gave a faint, satisfied huff and withdrew the digit. The human’s skin remained unmarred, but when his lips and tongue moved frantically, only breath emerged. The sheriff didn’t give him a chance to wrap his head around what had happened – reaching around him, he ripped the letter opener from the man’s flesh. The human arched in the Nagloper’s grasp, the tendons of his neck standing out like steel cables as the breath tore from his throat in a silent scream. Blood speckled the marble floor, the scent of which made LaCroix’s fangs itch with thirst.

“Take him to the chantry,” he said. “I’ll inform the regent you’re coming.” The sheriff dipped into a shallow bow as he placed the bloodied letter opener on the edge of LaCroix’s desk, then turned and carried the kine’s limp form from the room. The closing of the office door cut off the sound of the mortal’s papery, whispering sobs.

LaCroix swiped distractedly at the back of a fang with his tongue as he picked up the letter opener. The man didn’t fit his feeding requirements, but the scent of fresh blood was enough to rouse the Beast’s attention; it swelled in his chest and scraped its fangs against the base of his throat, snarling quietly in the back of his mind. He swallowed it back down, taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping the implement clean before returning it to its usual spot on his desk. He dropped the handkerchief into the wastebasket.

He checked his watch.

The childe had doubtless made it to her destination. And there was currently no assistance he could offer her. He set his jaw and reached for his phone. He needed to inform Strauss of the pending arrivals at his chantry.


End file.
